Nil 



M 




1 



THE 



NATIONAL READER; 



SELECTION OF EXERCISES 



IN 



READING AND SPEAKING 



DESIGNED 



TO FILL THE SAME PLACE 



IN THE 



SCHOOLS OF THE UNITED STATES, 



THAT IS HELD IN 



THOSE OF GREAT BRITAIN 

BY THE COMPILATIONS OF 

MURRAY, SCOTT, ENFIELD, MYLIUS, THOMPSON, 
EWING, AND OTHERS. 



BY JOHN PIERPONT, 

COMPILER OF THE AMERICAN FIRST CLASS-BOOK, THE 

INTRODUCTION TO THE NATIONAL READER, 

AND THE YOUNG READER. 



BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED BY CARTER, HENDEE, AND CO. 

AND 

HILLIARD, GRAY, AND CO. 

1833. 




ccf 



V 



DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit: 

District Cleric's Ofice. 

Be it remembered, that on the ele%'enth day of Jtine, A. D. 1827, in the fifty-first 
year of the [ndepeiideiice of the United States of Anserica, Joh.v Pierpont, of the 
said District, has deposited in tl)is office the title of a book, the right whereof he 
claims as proprietor, in the Avords following, to icit: 

"The National Reader; a Selection of Exercises in Reading and Speaking, de- 
signed to fill the same Place in the Schools of the United States, that is held in 
those of Great Britain by the Compilations of Murray, Scott, Enfield, Mylius, 
Thompson, Ev.in?, and others. By Johm Pierpo:st. Compiler of the American 
First Class-Book." 

In conformity to the act of the Congress ofth.e United States, entitled, " An Act 
for the encouragement of learning, by seeming the copies of maps, charts, and 
books, to the authors and proj)rietors of such copies, dt'.ring the times therein men- 
tioned :" and also to an act, entitled, "An Act supplementary to an act, entitled, 
An Act for tiie e-icoiiragement of learning, by securing the coj)ies of maps, cijarts, 
and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein 
mentioned ; and extending tlje benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, 
and etching historical and otlier prints." 

JOHN W. DAVIS, j Clerk /the District 
' ( of , Massachusetts. 



Extract from, the Rcco7'ds of the School- Committee of Boston. 

At a meeting of the School-Committee of the City of Boston, holdeii at 
the Mayor and Aldermen's Room, July 2d, 1829, — Voted, That "Pierpout's 
National Reader" be introduced into the public grammar schools of 
this city, in lieu of "Murray's English Reader," after the visitation of the 
Schools in August. 

Attest, T. W,*MtuPP.,, \ AZf!r7Ji:t 



m; r 



School- Comm ittee. 



STEREOTYPED AT THE 
I.A"??CASTER TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. 



/ 






PREFACE. 



The favour shown by the public to the ^^ American First Class-Book" 
has encouraged me to proceed to the execution of a purpose, that I formed 
while preparing that book for the press — the compilation of a Reader, for 
the Common Schools of the United States, vjhich should be, — what no school- 
book compiled in Great Britain is, — in some degree at least, American^ 

It cannot, indeed, be urged as an objection to a British school-book, that 
it is not adapted to American schools ; that it consists exclusively of the 
productions of British authors ; that it abounds in delineations of British 
manners,— m descriptions of British scenery, — in eulogies of British heroes 
and statesmen,— m selections from British history, — and in pieces, of which 
it is the direct aim to impress the mind of the reader with a deep sense of 
the excellence of British institutions, and of the power and glory of ths 
British empire. A book of this character is moving in its proper sphere, 
;.._ d accomplishing the purpose of its author, when it is passing from hand 
lo-hand, among the children of Great Britain, introducing them to an ae- 
qvaintance with their native land, and with those who have adorned it by 
their genius or their virtues, and thus exciting within them a love of their 
:■' -mtry, and a resolution to become its ornaments in their turn. That eiFect 
produced by the book, its author has gained his object, and has established 
his character, and secured his rev/ard, as a benefactor of his country m one 
of its most valuable interests : and it derogates nothing from his merit or 
fame, to say that his book is not well adapted to those for whose use he did 
not intend it ; for this is but sajdng that he has not done what he has not 
attempted to do. It is no disparagement to English laws, to say that they 
will not do for us. They were not made for us. Nor is it a disparagement 
to English school-books, to say that they are not adapted to American 
schools. There is not one, among them all, that was designed for Ameri' 
can schools. To the compiler of an American Schopl-Reader, it wo^ld, no 
doubt, be flattering, to know that his book had found such favour in Eng- 
land, as to be introduced extensively into common schools there. But, 
though tliis might be a little flattering to him, it would, probably, seem to 
him not a little strange, that they had not books of their own in England, 
better fitted to the schools, under a monarchical form of government, than 
the compilation of a republican foreigner, which was never intended for 
them. And would it be to the honour of English literature, or of those men 
in England, who feel an interest in the prosperity of the state, — and, con^ 
sequently, an interest in seeing the young so educated, that they may worthi- 
ly fill its places of honour and trust, — to admit, by the general introduction 
of foreign compilations into their schools, that there is no man in England 
able to make a good school-book, and, at the same time, willing to submit 
to the labour of making one 7 

This country' hfis political institutions of its own ;' — institutions which the 
men of each successive generation must uphold. But this they cannot do, 
tmless they are early made to understand and value them, It has a history 
of its own, of which it need not be ashamed ; — -fathers, and heroes, and 
sages, of its own, whose deeds and praises are worthy of being "said or 



iv PREFACE. 

suiig" by even the " mighty masters of the lay," — and with whose deeds and 
praises, by being made familiar in our childhood, we shall be not the less 
qualified to act well our part, as citizens of a republic. Our country, both 
physically and morally, has a character of its own. Should not something 
of that character be learned by its children while at school ? Its mountains, 
and prairies, and lakes, and rivers, and cataracts, — its shores and liill-tops, 
that were early made sacred by the dangers, and sacrifices, and deaths, of 
the devout and the daring — it does seem as if these were worthy of being 
held up, as objects of interest, to the 3"oung eyes that, from 3'ear to year, 
are opening upon them, and worthy of being linked, with all their sacred 
associations, to the young afiections, which, sooner or later, Ttivst be bound 
to them, or they must cease to be — what they now are — the inheritance and 
abode of a free people. 

It has been my object to make this book — what it is called — a National 
Reader. By this I do not mean that it consists, entirely, of American pro- 
ductions, or that the subjects of the different lessons are exclusively Ameri- 
can. I do not understand that a national spirit is an exclusive spirit. The 
language of pure moral sentiment, the out-pourings of a poetical spirit, the 
lessons of genuine patriotism, and of a sublime and catholic religion, — let 
them have proceeded from what source they may, — not a few pieces, espe- 
cially, which have long held a place in English compilations, — I have 
adopted freely into this collection, and believe that I have enriched it by 
them. I trust that there will be found in it not a line or a thought, that 
shall offend the most scrupulous delicacy, or that shall give any parent 
occasion to tremble for the morals of either a son or a daughter ; and I hope 
that a regard for my own interest, if no higher consideration, may have 
prevented my being unmindful of that section of the late laic of this com- 
monwealth, which provides, that no committee of a public school shall ever 
''direct any school-books to be purchased, or used in any of the schools 
under their superintendence, which are calculated to favour any particular 
religious sect or tenet." 

In regard to rules or directions for reading, the same considerations which 
prevented my filling up any part of the " American First Class-Book" with 
them, have induced me to introduce none of them into this collection of 
exercises. Three things only are required to make a good reader. He 
must read so that what he reads shall, in the first place, be heard; in the 
second, that it shall be understood; and, in the third, that it shall be ./e/f. 
If a boy has voice, and intelligence, and taste enough to do all this, then, 
under the personal guidance and discipline of a teacher who can read well, 
he will learn to read well ; but if he has not, he may study rules, and pore 
over the doctrine of cadences and inflectionSj till " chaos come again/' — 
he will never be a good reader. 

In the humble hope that this compilation may contribute something to 
the accomplishing of the young, in this country, in the art of reading and 
speaking well, — something to the improvement of their taste, the cultiva- 
tion of their moral sense and religious affections, and, thus, sornetliing tf) 
their preparation for an honourable discharge of their duties in this life, and 
for "glory, honour, and immortality," in the life that is to come, — I submit 
it to the disposal of the public, and ask for it only the favour of Fhich it 
may be thought worthy, 

Boston, June, i6=?f , - J[. p^ 



arf''lii\iM W i ' ■ -^"^-" T r ■-- '^- 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



LESSONS IN PROSE. 



The names of American authors are ht small capitals. 
Lesson. -Page. 

1 . Discovery of America, abridged from Robertson. 9 

2. A good Scholar May. 14 

3. The good Schoolmaster Fuller. 16 

4. Attention and Industry rewarded Berquin. 18 

5. On Lying Chesterfield. 20 

6. Portrait of a Patriarch, selected from Job, by ...... .Addison. 21 

7. An uncharitable Spirit rebuked A Rabbinical Tide. 22 

11. Religious Contemplation of the Works of God . ..... Moodie. 26 

12. Criminality of Intemperance . . . H. Ware, Jr. 27 

13. The Worm _ J. Russell. 29 

14. Debt and Credit . '. Trenton Emporium. 31 

15. The Indians of North America . . Cincinnati Nat. Republican. 33 
• 16. Story and Speech of Logan .Jefferson. 35 

20. Grandeur and Interest of American Antiquities T.Flint. 43 

22. The American Indian, as he was, and as he is . . . C. Sprague. 47 

23. The Grave a Place of Rest Mackenzie. A^ 

23. Obedience to the Commands of God rewarded Moodie. 56 

29. Promises of Religion to the Young Alison. 57 

30. On the Swiftness of Time Johnson. 58 

33. Obidah, — the Journey of a Day Id. 62 

34. The Vision of Mirza Addison. 66 

37. The Widow and her Son C. Edwards. 72 

33. The Little Man in Black . W. Irving. 75 

93. The same, conclud.ed Ibid. 73 

40. Danger of being a good Singer . . . . London Literary Chronicle . 82 

45. The Voice of the Seasons Alison. 90 

.46. Anecdote of Richard Jackson .... London (Quarterly Review. 91 

47. Description of Niagara Falls . . • Hoxcison. 92 

49. Cataract of Terni Anonymous. 9.3 

50. A West-Indian Landscape Malte-Brun. 101 

51. Devotional Influences of Natural Scenery . B'achcood's Ed. Mag-. 10:2 

52. Passage of the Shenandoah through the Blue Ridge . Jeffer.?on. 10-5 

53. The Funeral of Maria Mackenzie. Ill 

59. A Leaf from " The Life of a Looking-Glass" . . Miss J. Taylor. 113 

64. Industry necessary to Genius V. Knox. V^l 

63. Story of Matilda Goldsmith. 123 

67. Early Recollections Neio Mmthly Mag-azinc. 12G 

72. Cruelty to Animals reproved M.irar. 135 

73. Excessive Severity in Punishments censured .... ^Goldsmith. 137 

77. Religion the Basis of Society ^ ^ Channing. H2 

73. Punish:ncnt of a Liar Bibl" 143 

1* 



vi CONTENTS. 

Lesson. Pag*- 

79. Claims of the Jews Noel. 145 

80. Happiness of Devotional Habits and Feelings . . . Wellbeloved. 147 

86. Folly of deferring Religious Duties Ibid. 156 

87. Religion the best Preparation for Duty in Life Norton. 158 

88. The Young of every Rank entitled to Education . . Greenwood. 160 

93. The Bells of St. Mary's, Limerick . . . Lorxdon lAterary Gazette. 168 

94. Jerusalem arid the surrounding Country 

Letters from the East, Banks. 171 

95. The same, concluded Ibid. 176 

98. Mount Sinai Ibid. 180 

100. Religious Education necessary Greenwood. 185 

101. Importance of Science to a Mechanic G.B.Emerson. 188 

102. Story of Rabbi Akiba From Hurwitz's Hebrew Tales. 190 

107. First Settlement of the Pilgrims in New England, abridged 

and compiled from Robertson and Neal. 196 

108. Extract from an Oration delivered at Plymouth . . E. Everett. 200 

109. Extract from the same Ibid. 201 

110. Claims of the Pilgrims to the Gratitude and Reverence of 

their Descendants O. Dewey. 205 

114. Character of the Puritan Fathers Greenwood. 213 

115. The same, concluded Ibid. 216 

116. Extract from a Speech on the American Colonies . Lord Chatham. 219 

117. Extract from a Speech on British Aggi-essions . Patrick Henry. 221 

118. Account of the Battles of Lexington and Concord Botta. 223 

119. The same, concluded Ibid. 227 

120. Extract from an Oration delivered at Concord . . . E. Everett. 229 

127. Account of the Battle of Bunker's Hill Botta. 242 

128. The same, concluded • Ibid. 246 

130. Extract from an Address on Bunker's Hill . . . . D. Webster. 250 

131. Extract from the same . Ibid. 252 

134, Extract from a Speech on Dinas Island Phillips. 257 

135. Nature of True Eloquence. Extract from a Discourse in 

commemoration of Adams and Jefferson . . . D. Webster. 260 

136, Extract from the same Discourse Ibid. 261 

137. Extract from the same Ibid. 263 



LESSONS IN POETRY. 

8. Paraphrase of the Nineteenth Psalm Addison.. 23 

9, Morning Meditations Hawkesworth. 24 

10, Nature's Music Anonymous. 25 

17. Geehale. An Indian Lament ..... New- York Statesman. 36 

18. Fall of Tecumseh Id. 38 

19. Monument Mountain Bryant. 39 

21. Mounds on the Western Rivers M.Flint. 46 

24. On planting Flowers on the Graves of Friends . Blackwood's Mag-. 51 

25. Thoughts in Prospect of Death Henry K. White. 52 

26. The Grave Bernard Barton. 53 

27! The Fall of the Leaf Milonov, translated by Bowring. 54 

31 . Lines on returning to one's Native Country- Anonymous. 60 

32. " He shall flv away as a Dream" Anon. 62 

35. The World we have not seen Anon. 70 



CONTENTS. 



Vll 



Lesson. 

36. The Better Land Mrs. Hemans. 

41. The Country Clergyman Goldsmith. 

42. Parody on " The Country Clergyman" . . Blackicood's Ed. Mag: 

43. Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize Goldsmith. 

44. The Sick Man and the Angel Gay. 

48. Niagara Falls, — from the Spanish . T. T. Payne. 

53. The Blind Boy Bloomfield. 

54. A Thought on Death Mrs. Barhauld. 

55. The Old Man's Funeral . Bkyant. 

Sunday Evening Bowring. 

The Star of Bethlehem * J. G. Percival. 

The silent Expression of Nature Anonymous. 

A Thought Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine. 

Fidelity Wordsworth. 

Solitude Henry K. White. 

The Man of Ross Pope. 

On A^isiting a Scene of Childhood . . Blackwood's Ed. Magazine. 

The little Graves Anonymous. 

Life and Death New Monthly Magazine. 

The Burial of Arnold Willis. 

Address to Liberty Cowper. 

The Hermit Beattie. 

Hymn to the Stars Monthly Repository. 

The Seasons Mrs. Barbaidd. 

March Bryant. 

April Longfellow. 

May " J. G. Pebcival. 

The Voice of Spring Mrs. Hemans. 

Childhood and Manhood. An Apologue Crabbe. 

The Skies Bryant. 

Address to the Stars New Monthly Magazine. 

Song of the Stars Bryant. 

"That ye, through his poverty, might be rich" . . . W. Russell. 

Elijah fed by Ravens Grahame. 

The Summit of Mount Sinai Montgomery. 

Alice Fell Wordsworth,. 

The ^olian Harp European Magazine. 

Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe. 

War unnatural and unchristian Mellen. 

Song of the Pilgrims T. C. Upham. 

Landing- of the Pilgrims Mrs. Hemans. 

The Pilgrim Fathers Pierpont. 

Elegy, in a Country-Churchyard Gray. 

The Grave of Korner . . . ." Mrs. Hemans. 

God's First Temples. A Hymn Bryant. 

Hymn of Nature Peaeody. 

Lines on revisiting the Country Bryant. 

Lines on a Beehive Monthly Repository. 

Warren's Address before the Battle of Bunker's Hill . Pierpont. 
Hymn, commemorative of the Battle of Bunker's Hill . . . . Id, 

"What's hallowed Ground ?" Campbell. 

The School-Boy Amulet. 

Stanzas addressed to the Greeks Anonymous. 

Spanish Patriot's Song Anon. 

The Three Warnings Mrs. Thrale. 

The Mariner's Dream Dimond. 

Absalom Willis! 



56. 

57. 

60. 

61. 

62. 

63. 

66. 

68. 

69. 

70. 

71. 

74. 

75. 

76. 

81. 

82. 

83. 

84. 

85. 

89. 

90. 

91. 

92. 

96. 

97. 

99. 
103. 
104. 
105. 
106. 
111. 
112. 
113. 
121. 
122. 
123. 
124. 
125. 
126. 
129. 
132. 
133. 
133. 
139. 
140. 
141. 
142. 
143. 



Page. 

71 

84 

86 

88 

89 

96 

06 

07 

07 

09 

10 

17 

18 

19 

21 

25 

29 

31 

33 

34 

38 

39 

41 

49 

51 

52 

53 

53 

62 

64 

65 

66 

73 

79 

84 

91 

93 

94 

95 

210 

211 

212 

231 

235 

236 

239 

241 

242 

250 

254 

255 

266 

267 

268 

269 

272 

274 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



The names of American authors are in Italic. 



Ijessons. 

Addison. 6, 8, 34. 

Alison 29, 45. 

Amulet , 138. 

Anonymous . . 10, 31-, 32, 35, 49, 60, 
69, 139, 140. 

Banks 94, 95, 98. 

Barbauld, Mrs. L 54,81. 

Barton, Bernard 26. 

Beattie 75. 

Berquin 4. 

Bible 6, 78. 

Bloomfield 53. 

Botta 118,119,127,128. 

Bowring 27, 56. 

Bryant. . 19,55,82,90,92,123,125. 

Campbell ._ 133. 

Chanyiing-, \V. E 77. 

Chatham" Lord,— W. Pitt . . . 116. 

Chesterfield 5. 

Chronicle, London Literary . ..40. 

Cowper 74. 

Crabbe 89. 

Deioey, Orville . . . 110. 

Dimond 142. 



Edwards, Charles 37 

Emerscn, G.B 101 

Eviporium, (Trenton) 14. 

Everett, Edtcard . 



Lessons. 

Knox, Vicesimus 64. 

Longfellow, H. TV. 83. 

Mackenzie 23, 58. 

Magazine, New Monthly 67, 70, 91 . 

, Blackwood's"Edin, . . 24, 

42,51,61, 68. 

European 104. 



Malte-Brun 50. 

Mavor 72. 

May ; 2. 

Mellen 106. 

Milonov, translated by Bowring . 27. 

Montgomery 99. 

Moodie 11,28. 



Neal and P^obertson (abridged) . 107. 

Noel 79. 

Norton, A 87. 

Payne, T. T. 48. 

Peabody, TV. O. B 124. 

Perdval, J. G 57, 84. 

Phillips 134. 

Pierpont,J. 113,129,132. 

Pope 66. 



Flint, T. 20 

, M. 21 



Fuller 3. 

Cray 44. 

Gazette, London Literary . . . .93. 

Goldsmith 41,43,65,73. 

Grahame 97. 

Gray 121. 

Greenwood, F. JV. P. 83, 1 00, 11 4, 1 1 5 . 

Hawkes worth 9. 

Hem.ans, ?^Xrs. F. . . 36, 8.", 112, 122. 

Henri/, Paired-: 117. 

Howisou 47. 

Trciuff, Washing-ton .... 33, 39. 

JeJfeTson, Tkovias 16,52. 

Jonnsoii, Dr. Samuel . . . . 30, 33. 



Rabbinical Tales 7, 102. 

Repository, Monthly . . . . 76,126. 

Republican, Nat. {Cincinnati) . . 15. 

. 103; 109, 120. [Review, London Q.uarterly . . .46. 

Robertson, (abridged) 1. 

, and Neal (abridged) . 107. 

Russell, John 13. 



--, William . 96. 



Sprague, Charles 22. 

Statesman, Neio- York . . . .17,18. 

Taylor, Sliss Jane 59. 

Thrale, Mrs. . 141. 



Upham, T. C. 



111. 



V/are,H.Jr 12. 

Walter, D. . 130, 131, 135, 136, 137. 

Wellbeloved 80, 86. 

While, Henry K 25, 63. 

Willis 71, 143. 

Wolfe, Charles 105. 

Wordsvv'orth 62, 103. 



NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON I. 

Discovery of America. — Abridged froTn Robertson, 

On Friday, the third day of August, in the year one thou- 
sand four hundred and ninety- two, Columbus set sail from 
Palos, in Spain, a little before sunrise, in presence of a vast 
crowd of spectators, who sent up their supplications to Hea- 
ven for the prosperous issue of the voyage ; which Xhej 
wished, rather than expected. 

His squadron, if it merit that name, consisted of no more 
than three small vessels, — the Santa Maria, the Pinta, and 
the Nigna, — having on board ninety men, mostly sailors, 
together with a few adventurers, who followed the fortune 
of Columbus, and some gentlemen of the Spanish court, 
whom the queen appointed to accompany him. 

He steered directly for the Canary Islands ; from which, 
after refitting his ships, and supplying himself with fresh 
provisions, he took his departure on the sixth day of Sep- 
tember. Here the voyage of discovery may properly be 
said to have begun ; for Columbus, holding his course due 
west, left immediately the usual track of navigation, and 
stretched into unfrequent'ed and unknown seas. 

The first day, as it was very calm, he made but little 
way ; but, on the second, he lost sight of the Canaries ; and 
many of the sailors, already dejected and dismayed, when 
they contemplated the boldness of the undertaking, began to 
beat their breasts, and to shed tears, as if they were never 
more to behold land. Columbus comforted them with as- 
surances of success, and the prospect of vast wealth in those 
opulent regions, whither he was conducting them. 

This early discovery of the spirit of his followers taught 
Columbus th^t he must prepare to struggle, not only with 



ji 



10 NATIONAL READER. 

tlie unavoidable difficulties which might be expected from 
the nature of his undertaking, but with such as were likely 
to arise from the ignorance and timidity of the people under 
his command ; and he perceived, that the art of governing 
the minds of men would be no less requisite for accomplish- 
ing the discoveries, which he had in view, than naval skill 
and an enterprising courage. 

Happily for himself, and for the country by which he was 
-employed, he joined to the ardent temper and inventive 
genius of a projector, virtues of another species, which are 
rarely united with them. He possessed a thorough know- 
ledge of mankind, an insinuating address, a patient perse- 
verance in executing any plan, the perfect government of 
his own passions, and the talent of acquiring the direction 
of those of other men. 

All these qualities, which formed him for command, were 
accompanied with that superior knowledge of his profession 
which begets confidence, in times of difficulty and danger. 
To unskilful Spanish sailors, accustomed only to coasting 
voyages in the Mediterranean, the maritime science of 
•£5olumbus, the fruit of thirty years' experience, appeared 
'immense. As soon as they put to sea, he regulated every 
thing by his sole authority ; he superintended the execution. 
:of every order, and, allowing himself only a few hours for 
-sleep, he was, at all other times, upon deck. 

As his course lay through seas which had not been visit- 
ed before, the sounding line, or instruments for observation, 
were continually in his hands. He attended to the motion 
of the tides and currents, watched the flight of birds, the 
appearance of fishes, of sea-weeds, and of every thing that 
floated on the waves, and accurately noted every occurrence 
in a journal that he kept. 

By the fourteenth day of September, the fleet was above 
two hundred leagues to the west of the Canary Isles, a 
greater distance from land than any Spaniard had ever been 
before that time. Here the sailors were struck with an 
appearance no less astonishing than new. They observed 
that the magnetic needle, in their compasses, did not point 
exactly to the north star, but varied towards the west. 

This appearance, which is now familiar, fill^ the com- 
panions of Columbus with terror. They were in an ocean 
boundless and unknown, nature itself seemed to be altered, 
and the only guide, which they had left, was about to fail 
them, Colum.bus, with no less quickness than ing-enuity, 



NATIONAL READER. 11 

invented at reason for this appeamtice, which, thotig-h ft did 
not satisfy hiraseiff seemed so plausible to th(*m, that it dis- 
pelled their fears, and silenced their mumitirs* 

On the first of October, they were about seven hundred 
and seventy leagues west of the Canaries. They had now 
been above three weeks at sea : all their prog"nostics of dis- 
covery, drawn from the flight of birds, and other circumstan- 
ces, had proved fallacious, and their prospect of success seem- 
ed now to be as distant as ever. The spirit of discontent 
and of mutiny beg^an to manifest itself among the sailors, 
and, by degrees, the contagion spread from ship to ship. 

All agreed, that Columbus should be compelled, by force, 
to return, while their crazy vessels were yet in a condition 
to keep the sea ; and some even proposed to throw him 
overboard, as the most expeditious method of getting rid 
of his remonstrances, and of securing a seasonable return to 
their native land. 

Columbus was fully sensible of his perilous situation. He 
perceived that it Avould be of no avail to have recourse to 
any of his former expedients, to lead on the hopes of his 
companions, and that it was impossible to rekindle any zeal 
for the success of the expedition, among men, in whose 
breasts fear had extinguished every generous sentiment. 

He found it necessary to soothe passions, which he could 
no longer command, and to give way to a torrent too im- 
petuous to be checked. He accordingly promised his men, 
that he Avould comply with their request, provided they 
would accompany him, and obey his commands, for three 
days longer ; and if, during that time, land were not dis- 
covered, he would then abandon the enterprise, and direct 
his course towards Spain. 

Enraged as the sailors were, and impatient as they were 
of returning to their native country, this proposition did not 
appear to them unreasonable : nor did Columbus hazard 
much in confining himself to a time so short ; for the pres'- 
ages of discovering land had become so numerous and pro- 
mising, that he deemed them infallible. 

For some days, the sounding line had reached the bot- 
tom ; and the soil, which it brought up, indicated land to be 
at no great distance. The flocks of birds increased, and 
were composed not only of sea-fowl, but of such land birds 
as could not be supposed to fly far from the shore. 

The crew of the Pinta observed a cane floating, which 
seemed to have been newly cut, and likewise a piece of 
timber, artificially carved. The sailors aboard the Nigna 



12 NATIONAL READER. 

took up the branch, of a tree, with red berries, perfectly fresh. 
The clouds, around the setting- sun, assumed a new appear- 
ance ; the air was more mild and warm ; and, during night, 
the wind became unequal and variable. 

From all these symptoms, Columbus was so confident of 
being near land, that, on the evening of the eleventh of 
October, after public prayers for success, he ordered the 
sails to be furled, and strict watch to be kept, lest the ship 
should be driven ashore in the night. During this interval 
of suspense and expectation, no man shut his eyes ; all kept 
upon deck, gazing intently towards that quarter where they 
expected to discover the land, which had been so long the 
object of their wishes. 

About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on 
the forecastle, observed a light at a distance, and privately 
pointed it out to two of his people. All three -saw it in 
motion, as if it were carried from place to place. A little 
after midnight, the joyful sound of Land ! Land ! was heard 
from the Pinta. But, having been so often deceived by fal- 
lacious appearances, they had now become slow of belief, 
and waited, in all the anguish of uncertainty and impatience, 
for the return of day. 

As soon as morning dawned, their doubts and fears were 
dispelled. They beheld an island about two leagues to the 
north, whose flat and verdant fields, well stored with wood, 
and watered with many rivulets, presented to them the 
aspect of a delightful country: The crew of the Pinta 
instantly began a hymn of thanksgiving to God, and were 
joined, by those of the other ships, with tears of joy, and 
transports of congratulation. 

This office of gratitude to Heaven was followed by an act 
of justice to their commander. They threw themselves at 
the feet of Columbus, with feelings of self-condemnation, 
mingled Avith reverence. They implored him to pardon 
their ignorance, incredulity, and insolence, which had creat- 
ed him so much unnecessary disquiet, and had so often 
obstructed the prosecution of his well-concerted plan ; and 
passing, in the warmth of their admiration, from one ex- 
treme to another, they now pronounced the man, whom 
they had so lately reviled and threatened, to be a person 
inspired, by Heaven, with sagacity and fortitude more than 
human, in order to accomplish a design so far beyond the 
ideas and conceptions of all former ages. 

As soon as the sun arose, all the boats were manned and 
armed. They rowed towards the island with their colours 



NATIONAL READER. 13 

displayed, warlike music, and other martial pomp ; and, as 
they approached the coast, they saw it covered with a mul- 
titude of people, whom the novelty of the spectacle had 
drawn together, and whose attitudes and gestures expressed 
wonder and astonishment at the strange objects which pre- 
sented themselves to their view. 

Columbus was the first European who set foot in the New 
World which he had discovered. He landed in a rich dress, 
and with a naked sword in his hand. His men followed, 
and, kneeling down, they all kissed the ground which they 
had long desired to see. 

They next erected a crucifix, and, prostrating themselves 
before it, returned thanks to God for conducting their voyage 
to such a happy issue. They then took solemn possession 
of the country for the crown of Castile and Leon, with all 
the formalities with Avhich the Portuguese were accustomed 
to take possession of their new discoveries. 

The Spaniards, while thus employed, were surrounded by 
many of the natives, who gazed, in silent admiration, upon 
actions which they could not comprehend, and of which 
they did not foresee the consequences. The dress of the 
Spaniards, the whiteness of their skins, their beards, their 
arms, appeared strange and surprising. 

The vast machines, in which they had traversed the 
ocean, that seemed to move upon the water with wings, and 
uttered a dreadful sound, resembling thunder, accompanied 
with lightning and smoke, struck them with such terror, 
that they began to respect their new guests as a superior 
order of beings, and concluded that they were children of 
the sun, who had descended to visit the earth. 

The Europeans were hardly less amazed at the scene 
now before them. Every herb, and shrub, and tree, was 
different from those which flourished in Europe. The soil 
Geemed to be rich, but bore few marks of cultivation. The 
climate, even to Spaniards, felt warm, though extremely 
delightful. 

The inhabitants Avere entirely naked : their black hair, 
long and uncurled, floated upon their shoulders, or was 
bound in tresses around their heads : they had no beards ; 
their complexion was of a dusky copper colour ; their fea- 
tures singular, rather than disagreeable ; their aspect gentle 
and timid. 

Though not tall, they were well shaped and active. 
Their faces, and other parts of their body, were fantasti- 
2 



14 NATIONAL READER. 

cally painted with glaring" colours. They were shy at first, 
through fear, but soon became familiar with the Spaniards, 
and, with transports of joy, received from them hawks' bells, 
glass beads, and other baubles ; in return for which, they 
gave such provisions as they had, and some cotton yam, the 
only commodity of value which they could produce. 

Towards evening, Columbus returned to his ships, accom- 
panied by many of the islanders in their boats, which they 
called canoes ; and, though rudely formed out of the trunk of 
a single tree, they rowed them with surprising dexterity. 

Thus, in the first interview between the inhabitants of the 
Old World and those of the New, every thing was conduct- 
ed amicably, and to their mutual satisfaction. The former, 
enlightened and ambitious, formed already vast ideas with re- 
spect to the advantages which they might derive from those 
regions that began to open to their view. The latter, simple 
and undiscerning, had no foresight of the calamities and de- 
solation, which were now approaching their country. 



LESSON n. 

A good Scholar. — Mat. 



A GOOD scholar is knov/n by his obedience to the rules of 
the school, and to the directions of his teacher. He does 
not give his teacher the trouble of telling him the same 
thing over and over again ; but says or does immediately 
whatever he is desired. His attendance at the proper time 
of school is always punctual. Fearful of being too late, as 
soon as the hour of meeting approaches, he hastens to the 
school, takes his place quietly, and instantly attends to his 
lesson. He is remarkable for his diligence and attention. 
He reads no other book than that which he is desired to 
read by his master. He studies no lessons but those which 
are appointed for the day. 

He takes no toys from his pocket to amuse himself or 
others ; he has no fruit to eat, no sweetmeats to give away. 
If any of his companions attempt to take oif his eye or his 
mind from his lesson, he does not give heed to them. If 
they still try to make him idle, he bids them let him alone, 
and do their own duties. And if, after this, they go on to 
disturb and vex him, he informs the teacher, that, both for 



NATIONAL READER. 15 

their sake and for his own, he may interfere, and, by a wise 
reproof, prevent the continuance of such improper and hurt- 
ful conduct. 

When strangers enter the school, he does not stare rudely 
in their faces ; but is as attentive to his lesson as if no one 
were present but the master. If they speak to him, he 
answers with modesty and respect. When the scholars in 
his class are reading-, spelling, or repeating any thing, he is 
very attentive, and studies to learn by listening to them. 
His great desire is to improve, and therefore he is never 
idle, — not even when he might be so, and yet escape detec- 
tion and punishment. 

He minds his business as well when his teacher is out of 
sight, as when he is standing near him, or looking at him. 
If possible, he is more diligent when his teacher happens for 
a little to be away from him, that he may show " all good 
fidelity" in this, as in every thing else. He is desirous of 
adding to the knowledge he has already gained, of learning 
something useful every day. And he is not satisfied if a 
day passes, without making him wiser than he was before, 
in those things which will be of real benefit to him. 

When he has a difficult lesson to learn, or a hard task to 
perform, he does not fret or murmur at it. He knows that 
his master would not have prescribed it to him, unless he 
had thought that he was able for it, and that it would do 
him good. He therefore sets about it readily; and he en- 
courages himself with such thoughts as these : " My parents 
will be very glad when they hear that I have learned this 
difficult lesson, and performed this hard task. My teacher, 
also, will be pleased with me for my diligence. And I my- 
self shall be comfortable and happy when the exercise is 
finished. The sooner and the more heartily I apply myself 
tQ it, the sooner and the better it will be done." 

When he reads, his words are pronounced so distinctly, 
that you can easily hear and understand hini. His copy 
book is fairly written, and free from blots and scrav^ls. His 
letters are clear and full, and his strokes broad and fine. 
His figures are well made, accurately cast up, and neatly 
put down in their regular order; and his accounts are, in 
general, free from mistakes. 

He not only improves himself, but he rejoices in th^ invr 
provement of others. He loves to hear them commended, 
and to see them rewarded. " If I do well," he says, " I shall 
be commended and rewarded too ; and if all did wellj 



16 NATIONAL READER. 

what a happy school would ours be ! We ourselves would 
be much more comfortable ; and our master would haA^e a 
great deal less trouble and distress than he has on account 
of the idleness and inattention, of which too many of us 
are guilty." 

His books he is careful to preserve from every thing that 
might injure them. Having finished his lesson, he puts 
them in their proper place, and does not leave them to be 
tossed about, and, by that means, torn and dirtied. He never 
forgets to pray for the blessing of God on himself, on his 
school-fellows, and on his teacher ; for he knows that the 
blessing of God is necessary to make his education truly use- 
ful to him, both in this life, and in that which is to come. 

And, finally, it is his constant endeavour to behave well 
when he is out of school, as well as when he is in it. He 
remembers that the eye of God is ever upon him, and that 
he must at last give an account of himself to the great Judge 
of all. And, therefore, he studies to practise, at all times, 
the religious and moral lessons that he receives from his 
master, or that he reads in the Bible, or that he meets with 
in the other books that are given him to peruse ; and to 
" walk in all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord, 
blameless." 



LESSON III. 

The good Schoolmaster. — Fuller. 

There is scarce any profession in the commonwealth 
more necessary, which is so slightly performed, as that of 
a schoolmaster : the reasons whereof I conceive to be tliese. 
First, young scholars make this calling their refuge ; yea, 
perchance, before they have taken any degree in the uni- 
versity, commence schoolmasters in the country, as if no- 
thing else were required to set up this profession, but only 
a rod and a ferule. 

Secondly, others, who ate able, use it only as a passage to 
better preferment, to patch the rents in their present fortune, 
till they can provide a new one, and betake themselves to 
some more gainful calling. 

Thirdly, they are disheartened from doing their best with 
the miserable reward which, in some places, they receive ; 



NATIONAL READER. 17 

being masters to the children, and slaves to their parents. 
But see how well our schoolmaster behaves himself. 

He studieth his scholars' natures as carefully as they 
their books, and ranks their dispositions into several 
forms. And, though it may seem difficult for him, in a great 
school, to descend to all particulars, yet experienced school- 
masters may quickly make a grammar of boys' natures, and 
reduce them all (saving some few exceptions) to these general 
rules : 

1. Those that are ingenious and industrious. The con- 
junction of two such planets in a youth presa'ges much 
good unto him. To such a lad a frown may be a whipping, 
and a whipping a death ; yea, where his master whips him 
once, shame whips him all the week after. Such natures 
he useth with all gentleness. 

2. Those that are ingenious and idle. These think, with 
the hare in the fable, that, running with snails, (so they 
count the rest of their school-fellows,) they shall come soon 
enough to the post ; though sleeping a good while before their 
starting. O, a good rod would finely take them napping. 

3. Those that be dull and diligent. Wines, the stronger 
they be, the more lees they have when they are new. Many 
boys are muddy-headed till they be clarified with age, and 
such afterwards prove the best. Bristol diamonds are both 
bright, and squared, and pointed, by nature, and yet are soft 
and worthless ; whereas orient ones in India are rough and 
rugged naturally. Hard, rugged, and dull natures of youth 
acquit themselves afterwards the jewels of the country; and 
therefore their dulness is at first to be borne with, if they be 
diligent. That schoolmaster deserves to be beaten himself, 
who beats nature in a boy for a fault. 

4. Those that are invincibly dull, and negligent also. 
Correction may reform the latter, not amend the former. 
All the whetting in the world can never set a razor's edge 
on that which hath no steel in it. Such boys he consigneth 
over to other professions. Shipwrights and boatmakers will 
choose those crooked pieces of timber, which other carpen-. 
ters refuse. 

He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teaching %. no* 
leading them rather in a circle than forwards. He minces 
his precepts for children to swallow, hanging clogs on the' 
nimbleness of his own soul, that his scholars may go along 
with him. He is moderate in inflicting even deserved cor- 
rection. 

2^ 



18 NATIONAL READER. 

Many a schoolmaster seemeth to understand that school- 
ing his pupils meaneth scolding and scoring them; and 
therefore, in bringing them forward, he useth the lash more 
than the leading string. 

Such an Orbilius=^ mars more scholars than he makes. 
The tyr'anny of such a man hath caused the tongues of 
many to stammer, which spake plainly by nature, and whose 
stuttering, at first, was nothing else but fears quavering on 
their speech at their master's presence. 



LESSON IV. 

Attention and Industry rewarded. — Berquin. 

A RICH husbandman had two sons, the one exactly a year 
older than the other. The very day the second was bom, 
he set, in the entrance of his orchard, two young apple-trees, 
of equal size, which he cultivated with the same care, and 
which grew so equally, that no person could perceive the 
least difference between them. 

"When his children were capable of handling garden tools, 
lie took them, one fine morning in spring, to see these two 
trees, which he had planted for them, and called after their 
names ; and, when they had sufficiently admired their growth, 
and the number of blossoms that covered them, he said, " My 
dear children, I give you these trees : you see they are in 
good condition. They will thrive as much by your care, as 
they vfill decline by your negligence ; and their fruit will 
reward you in proportion to your labour." 

The youngest, named Edmund, was industrious and 
attentive. He busied himself in clearinof his tree of insects 
that would hurt it, and he propped up its stem, to prevent its 
taking a wrong bent. He loosened the earth about it, that 
the warmth of the sun, and the moisture of the dews, might 
cherish the roots. His mother had not tended him more 
carefully in his infancy, than he tended his young apple- 
tree. 

His brother, Moses, did not imitate his example. He 
spent a great deal of time on a mount that Avas near, throw- 

* OrbUius, — a grammarian of Beneventum, who was the first instractor 
of the poet Horace. He was naturally of a severe disposition, of v/hichhis 
pupils often felt the eifects. 



NATIONAL READER. It 

ing stones at the passengers in the road. He went among 
all the little dirty boys in the neighbourhood, to box with 
them ; so that he was often seen with broken shins and 
black eyes, from the kicks and blows he received in his 
quarrels. 

In short, he neglected his tree so far, that he never 
thought of it, till, one day in autumn, he, by chance, saw 
Edmund's tree so full of apples, streaked with purple and 
gold, that, had it not been for the props which supported its 
branches, the weight of its fruit must have bent it to the 
ground. 

Struck with the sight of so fine a tree, he hastened to his 
own, hoping to find as large a crop upon it ; but, to his great 
surprise, he saw scarcely any thing, except branches covered 
with moss, and a few yellow, withered leaves. Full of pas- 
sion and jealousy, he ran to his father, and said, " Father, 
what sort of a tree is that which you have given me ? It is 
as dry as a broomstick ; and I shall not have ten apples on 
it. My brother you have used better : bid him, at least, 
share his apples with me." 

" Share with you I" said his father : " so, the industrious 
must lose his labour to feed the idle ! Be satisfied with 
your lot ; it is the effect of your negligence ; and do not 
think to accuse me of injustice, when you see your brother's 
rich crop. 

" Your tree was as fruitful, and in as good order as his : 
it bore as many blossoms, and grew in the same soil : only 
it was not fostered with the same care. Edmund has kept 
his tree clear of hurtful insects ; but you have suffered them 
to eat up yours in its blossoms. 

" As I do not choose to let any thing which God has given 
me, and for which I hold myself accountable to him, go to 
ruin, I shall take this tree from you, and call it no more by 
your name. It must pass through your brother's hands, 
before it can recover itself; and, from this moment, both it, 
and the fruit it may bear, are his property. 

" You may, if you will, go into my nursery, and look for 
another, and rear it, to make amends for your fault ; but, if 
you neglect it, that too shall be given to your brother for 
assisting me in my labour." 

Moses felt the justice of his father's sentence, and the 
wisdom of his design. He, therefore, went that moment 
into the nursery, and chose one of the most thriving apple- 
trees he could find. Edmund assisted him, with his advice, 



20 NATIONAL READER. 

in rearing it ; Moses embraced every occasion of paying 
attention to it. 

He was now never out of humour with his comrades,^ and 
still less with himself ; for he applied cheerfully to work ; 
and, in autumn, he had the pleasure of seeing his tree fully 
answer his hopes. Thus he had the double advantage of 
enriching himself with a splendid crop of fruit, and, at the 
sarne time, of subduing the vicious habits he had contracted. 

His father was so well pleased with this change, that, the 
following year, he divided the produce of a small orchard 
between him and his brother. 



LESSON V. 

On hying. — Chesterfield. 



I REALLY know nothing more criminal, more mean, and 
more ridiculous, than lying. It is the production either of 
malice, cowardice, or vanity ; and generally misses of its 
aim in every one of these views ; for lies are always de- 
tected sooner or later. If I tell a malicious lie, in order to 
affect any man's fortune or character, I may indeed injure 
him for some time ; but I shall be sure to be the greatest 
sufferer at last : for, as soon as I am detected, (and detected 
I most certainly shall be,) I am blasted for the infamous 
attempt ; and whatever is said afterwards to the disadvan- 
tage of that person, however true, passes for calumny. 

If I lie, or equivocate, (for it is the same thing,) in order 
to excuse myself for something that I have said or done, 
and to avoid the danger or the shame that I apprehend from 
it, I discover, at once, my fear, as Avell as my falsehood ; 
and only increase, instead of avoiding, the danger and the 
shame ; I show myself to be the lowest and meanest of 
mankind, and am sure to be always treated as such. Fear, 
instead of avoiding, invites danger ; for concealed cowards 
will insult known ones. If one has had the misfortune to 
be in the wrong, there is something noble in frankly owning 
it ; it is the only way of atoning for it, and the only way of 
being forgiven. 

Equivocating, evading, shuffling, in order to remove a 
present danger or inconveniency, is something so mean, and 
betrays so much fear, that whoever practises them always 

* Pron. cum'-rades. 



NATIONAL READER. 21 

deserves to be, and often will be, kicked. There is another 
sort of lies, inoffensive enough in themselves, but wonder- 
fully ridiculous : I mean tliose lies which a mistaken vanity 
suggests, that defeat the very end for which they are calcu- 
lated, and terminate in the humiliation and confusion of 
their author, who is sure to be detected. These are chiefly 
narrative and historical lies, all intended to do infinite ho- 
nour to their author. 

He is always the hero of his own romances ; he has been 
in dangers, from which nobody but himself ever escaped ; he 
has seen with his own eyes whatever other people have 
heard or read of; and has ridden more miles post in one 
day, than ever courier went in two. He is soon discovered, 
and as soon becomes the object of universal contempt xind 
ridicule. 

Remember, then, as long as you live, that nothing but 
strict truth can carry you through the world, with either 
your conscience or your honour unwounded. It is not only 
your duty, but your interest : as a proof of which, you may 
always observe, that the greatest fools are the greatest liars. 
For my own part, I judge, by every man's truth, of his 
degree of understanding. 



LESSON VL 

Portrait of a Patriarch. — Addison. 

I CANNOT forbear making an extract of several passages, 
which I have always read with great delight, in the book of 
Job. It is the account, which that holy man gives, of his 
behaviour in the days of his prosperity, and, if considered 
only as a human composition, is a finer picture of a charita- 
ble and good-natured man than is to be met with in any 
other author. 

" Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days when 
God preserved me ; when his candle shined upon my head, 
and when, by his light, I walked through darkness ; when 
the Almighty was yet with me ; when my children were 
about me ; when I washed my steps with butter, and the 
rock poured out rivers of oil. 

" When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; and when 
the eye saw me, it gave witness to me ; because I delivered 



22 NATIONAL READER. 

the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had 
none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to 
perish came upon me ; and I caused the widow's heart to 
sing- for joy. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the 
lame ; I was a father to the poor ; and the cause which I 
knew not I searched out. 

" Did not I weep for him that was in trouble ? Was not 
my soul grieved for the poor ? Let me be weighed in an 
even balance, that God may know mine integrity. If I did 
despise the cause of my man-servant or of my maid-servant, 
when they contended with me, what then shall I do when 
Ood riseth up ? and when he visiteth, what shall I answer 
him ? Did not he that made me make him also ? 

" If I have withheld the poor from their desire, or have 
caused the eyes of the widow to fail, or have eaten my 
morsel myself alone, and the fatherless hath not eaten there- 
of; if I have seen any perish for want of clothing, or any 
poor without covering ; if his loins have not blessed me, 
and if he were not warmed with the fleece of my sheep ; if 
I have lifted up my hand against the fatherless, when I saw 
my help in the gate ; then let mine arm fall from my shoul- 
der-blade, and mine arm be broken from the bone. 

"I rejoiced not at the destruction of him that hated me, 
nor lifted up myself when evil found him ; neither have I 
suffered my mouth to sin, by wishing a curse to his soul. 
The stranger did not lodge in the street ; but I opened my 
doors to the traveller. If my land cry against me, or the 
furrows thereof complain ; if I have eaten the fruits thereof 
without money, or have caused the owners thereof to lose 
their life ; let thistles grow instead of wheat, and cockles 
instead of barley." 



LESSON VIL 

An uncharitable Spirit rebuked. — :Rabbinical. 

And it came to pass, after these things, that Abraham sat 
in the door of his tent, about the going down of the sun. 
And behold, a man, bent with age, came from the way of 
the wilderness, leaning on a staff! And Abraham arose, 
and met him, and said unto him, " Turn in, I pray thee, 
and wash thy feet, and tarry aU night ; and thou shalt arise 



1 



NATIONAL READER. 23 

early in the morning, and go on thy way." And the man 
said, "Nay; for I will abide under this tree." 

But Abraham pressed him greatly: so he turned, and 
they went into the tent : and Abraham baked unleavened 
bread, and they did eat. And when Abraham saw that the 
man blessed not God, he said unto him, " Wherefore dost 
thou not worship the most high God, Creator of heaven and 
earth ?" And the man answered, and said, " I do not wor- 
ship thy God, neither do I call upon his name ; for I have 
made to myself a god, which abideth always in my house, 
and provide th me with all things." 

And Abraham's zeal was kindled against the man, and he 
arosej and fell upon him, and drove him forth, with blows, 
into the wilderness. And God called unto Abraham, say- 
ing, " Abraham, where is the stranger ?" And Abraham 
answered, and said, " Lord, he Avould not worship thee, nei- 
ther would he call upon thy name ; therefore have I driven 
him out from before my face into the wilderness." 

And God said, " Have I borne with him these hundred and 
ninety and eight years, and nourished him, and clothed him, 
notwithstanding his rebellion against me ; and couldst not 
thoUj who art thyself a sinner, bear with him one night ?" 



LESSON VIIL 

Paraphrase of the Nineteenth Psalm. — Addison. 

The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 

Their great Original proclaim : 

The unwearied sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creator's power display. 

And publishes to every land 

The work of an Almighty Hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And nightly, to the listening earth, 
Eepeats the story of her birth y^ 

*Pron. berth. 



24 NATIONAL READER. 

"Whilst all the stars, that round her burn, 
And all the planets, in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings, as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round this dark terrestrial ball ! 
What though nor real voice, nor sound, 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ! 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice. 
For ever singing, as they shine, 
" The Hand that made us is Divine." 



LESSON IX. 

Morning Meditations. — Hawke s worth. 

In sleep's serene oblivion laid, 

I've safely passed the silent night ; 

Again I see the breaking shade, 
Again behold the morning light. 

New-born, I bless the waking hour ; 

Once more, with awe, rejoice to be ; 
My conscious soul resumes her power. 

And soars, my guardian God, to thee. 

O guide me through the various maze 
My doubtful feet are doomed to tread ; 

And spread thy shield's protecting blaze 
Where dangers press around my head. 

A deeper shade shall soon impend — 
A deeper sleep mine eyes oppress : — 

Yet then thy strength shall still defend ; 
Thy goodness still delight to bless. 

That deeper shade shall break away ; 

That deeper sleep shall leave mine eyes ; 
Thy light shall give eternal day ; 

Thy love, the rapture of the skies. 



NATIONAL READER. 25 

LESSON X. 

Nature's Music. — -Anonymous. 

Nay, tell me not of lordly halls ! 

My minstrels are the trees ; 
The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls, 

Earth's sounds my symphonies. 

There's music sweeter to my soul 

In the weed by the wild wind fanned, 
In the heave of the surge, than ever stole 

From mortal minstrel's hand. 

There's mighty music in the roar 

Of the oaks on the mountain's side, 
When the whirlwind bursts on their foreheads hoar, 

And the lightning flashes wide. 

There's music in the city's hum. 

Heard in the noontide glare, 
When its thousand mingling voices come 

On the breast of the sultry air. 

There's music in the forest stream, 

As it plays through the deep ravine,"^ 
Where never summer's breath or beam 

Has pierced its woodland screen. 

There's music in the thundering sweep 

Of the mountain waterfall, 
As its torrents struggle, and foam, and leap 

From the brow of its marble wall. 

There's music in the dawning morn, 

Ere the lark his pinion dries — 
In the rush of the breeze through the dewy corn, 

Through the garden's per'fumed dyes. 

There's music on the twilight cloud. 

As the clanging wild swans spring ; 
As homeward the screaming ravens crowd, 

Like squadrons on the wing. 

* Pron. ra-veen'. i 



26 NATIONAL READER. 

There's music in the depth of night, 
When the world is still and dim, 

And the stars flame out in their pomp of light, 
Like thrones of the cherubim ! 



LESSON XL 

Meligious Contemplation of the Works of God. — Moobie. 

Contem'plate the great scenes of nature, and accustom 
yourselves to connect them with the perfections of God. All 
vast and unmeasurable objects are fitted to impress the soul 
with awe. The m.ountain, which rises above the neigh- 
bouring hills, and hides its head in the sky ; the sounding, 
unfathomed, boundless deep ; the expanse of heaven, where, 
above, and around, no limit checks the wondering eye ; 
these objects fill and elevate the mind — they produce a 
solemn frame of spirit, which accords with the sentiment 
of religion. 

From the contemplation of what is great and magnificent 
in nature, the soul rises to the Author of all. We think of 
the time which preceded the birth of the universe, when no 
being existed but God alone. A^Hiile unnumbered systems 
arise in order before us, created by his power, arranged by 
his wisdom, and filled with his presence, the earth, and the 
sea, with all that they contain, are hardly beheld amidst the 
immensity of his works. In the boundless subject the soul 
is lost. " It is he who sitteth on the circle of the earth, and 
the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers. He Aveigheth 
the mountains in scales. He taketh up the isles as a very 
little thing. Lord, what is man that thou art mindful 
of him !" 

Pause for a while, ye travellers on the earth, to contem'- 
plate the universe in which you dwell, and the glory of him 
who created it. AVhat a scene of wonders is here present- 
ed to your view ! If beheld with a religious eye, what 
a temple for the worship of the Almighty ! The earth is 
spread out before you, reposing amidst the desolation of 
winter, or clad in the verdure of the spring ; smiling in the 
beauty of summer, or loaded with autumnal fruit; open- 
ing, to an endless variety of beings, the treasures of their 



NATIONAL READER. 27 

Maker's goodness, and ministering subsistence and comfort 
to every creature that lives. 

The heavens, also, declare the glory of the Lord. The 
sun Cometh forth from his chambers to scatter the shades of 
night, inviting you to the renewal of your labours, adorning 
the face of nature, and, as he advances to his meridian 
brightness, cherishing every herb and every flower that 
springeth from the bosom of the earth. Nor, when he re- 
tires again from your view, doth he leave the Creator with- 
out a witness. He only hides his own splendor for a while, 
to disclose to you a more glorious scene ; to show you the 
immensity of space filled with worlds unnumbered, that your 
imaginations may wander, without a limit, in the vast crea- 
tion of God. 

What a field is here opened for the exercise of every 
pious emotion ! and how irresistibly do such contemplations 
as these aAvaken the sensibility of the soul ! Here is infinite 
power to impress you with awe ; here is infinite wisdom to 
fill you with admiration ; here is infinite goodness to call 
forth your gratitude and love. The correspondence between 
these great objects and the affections of the human heart, is 
established by nature itself ; and they need only to be placed 
before us, that every religious feeling may be excited. 



LESSON XIL 

Criminality of Intemperance. — H. Ware, Jr. 

I DO not mean to say, that the habit of intemperance is 
ever formed without temptation, or persisted in without 
what maybe thought an excuse. The temptation is gradual, 
and insinuating; the habit is formed insensibly. It is an 
established custom for men to drink while they labour. The 
poor man is taught, absurdly, to think a glass necessary 
for his strength ; he finds another necessary for good com- 
panionship. He cannot go abroad without finding a lure in- 
vitingly held out beneath the license of the law. Before he 
is aware of it, a certain stimulus has become necessary to 
his constitution. If he try to amend, he is pressed by 
this necessity, and, in a manner, com.pelled to maintain the 
vice ; though he would give the world to renounce it. And 



28 NATIONAL READER. 

where, we are asked, is the sin in all this? Is there not 
rather a call for compassion than for censure ? 

Undoubtedly there is a call for compassion ; for deep and 
earnest compassion. So there is in the case of every sin, 
when we reflect on the circumstances of trial and tempta- 
tion. The case of the 'drunkard is not, in this respect, dif- 
ferent from that of other criminals. The man who, impel- 
led by want, or the unprincipled habits of a bad education, 
robs on the high way, is driven by as imperious a necessity 
as the drunkard. The temptation is as strong, the habit is 
as irresistible. 

The sudden passion of the murderer is as irresistible as 
the appetite of the tippler. The cherished revenge of the 
assassin is as strong an incitement as the cherished thirst 
of the intemperate. But who, in these cases, excuses the 
crime because of the temptation ? Who thinks it a pallia- 
tion of the offence, that the state of the offender's mind and 
heart is such as necessarily to lead to it ? 

Who excuses the two-fold crime of David, because of 
the greatness of the lust by which he was drawn away and 
enticed ? Compassionate, therefore, as you please, the con- 
dition of the miserable man who is the slave of intemperate 
habits ; but remember that, after all, his apology is but the 
same with that of other criminals, and quite as strong for 
them as for him. 

Indeed, may we not fairly go further, and say, that there 
are some circumstances which bring a peculiar aggravation 
to his guilt? When we consider the powerful dissuasives 
from this sin, is there not an aggravation in that state of 
mind, which is not at all affected by them? When we 
reflect on the misery it occasions, must there not be a sin- 
gular guilt in that deadness of mind, which allows one cool- 
ly to produce that misery, without any malice or bad inten- 
tion ? How thoroughly must the good affections be palsied, 
and the moral sense destroyed, when this brutalizing enjoy- 
ment has become more desirable to a man, than all the rich 
pleasures which flow from home, friendship, health, and 
reputation ! 

What an enormity of sin must he have to answer for, who 
has depraved himself so far, that, when all the felicities of a 
rational and social being are put in the one scale, and those 
of a beastly self-indulgence in the other, he chooses the last, 
strips himself of decency and honour, puts out the light of 
reason, flings off' the attributes of a man, and rushes into all 



» NATIONAL READER. ' 29 

the wickedness of voluntary insanity, disgusting idiocy, and 
profane beastliness — disgraces his friends, beggars his fami- 
ly, initiates his children in the dispositions and pathway of 
hell, — becomes the corrupter of youthful purity, and a public 
teacher of debauchery — with no disposition to engage in 
good pursuits, and no power to attend to the things which 
concern his peace, or to take one step toward the salvation 
of his soul ! 

What can be said of such a man, but that his present and 
eternal ruin are complete ! Earth curses him, while he is 
upon it ; and beyond it he can see no prospect but that of 
the blackness of darkness. A drunkard cannot inherit the 
kingdom of heaven. 

I am aware that many are ready to start back with incre- 
dulity and displeasure, when we speak of the eternal ruin 
of any human being : and rightly, if it be denounced by 
human wrath with insufficient authority. But, in the pre- 
sent case, let any considerate man reflect on the nature of 
this vice, and consider how it deforms and brutalizes the 
whole man ; how it destroys the intellectual faculties ; how 
it palsies the moral affections ; how it unfits for duty, inca- 
pacitates for improvement, disqualifies for the pure and 
elevated sentiments of devotion, and renders one as little 
capable of religion as of reason ; — does he not perceive that 
it is impossible for such a man to relish the pure, intellectual, 
spiritual joys of heaven? and that his future prospects are, 
therefore, fearful and dark ? 

If pure affections, penitent humility, and devout habits, 
be essential to its bliss, has he not dreadfully ruined the 
hope of his soul ? If preparation be necessary, has he not 
refused his happiness, by refusing to be prepared ? Does 
not reason take up the language of scripture, and repeat, 
with earnest conviction, A drunkard cannot inherit the king- 
dom of God ? 



LESSON XIII. 

The Worm. — ^J. Russell. 

"Outvenoms all the worms of Nile." — Shakspeare. 

Who has not heard of the rattle-snake or copperhead ? 
An unexpected sight of either of these reptiles will make 
3=^ 



30 NATIONAL READER. 

even the lords of creation recoil : but there is a species of 
worm, found in various parts of this state, which conveys a 
poison of a nature so deadly, that, compared with it, even 
the venom of the rattle-snake is harmless. To guard our 
readers against this foe of human kind, is the object of this 
communication. 

This worm varies much in size. It is frequently an inch 
through, but, as it is rarely seen, except when coiled, its 
length can hardly be conjectured. It is of a dull lead colour, 
and generally lives near a spring or small stream of water, 
and bites the unfortunate people, who are in the habit of 
going there to drink. The brute creation it never molests. 
They avoid it with the same instinct that teaches the ani- 
,mals of Peru to shun the deadly coya. 

Several of these reptiles have long infested our settle- 
ments, to the misery and destruction of many of our fellow 
citizens. I have, therefore, had frequent opportunities of 
being the melancholy spectator of the effects produced by 
the subtle poison which this worm infuses. 

The symptoms of its hite are terrible. The eyes of the 
patient become red and fiery, his tongue swells to an immo- 
derate size, and obstructs his utterance ; and delirium, of the 
most horrid character, quickly follows. Sometimes, in his 
madness, he attempts the destruction of his nearest friends. 

If the sufferer has a family, his weeping wife and helpless 
infants are not unfrequently the objects of his frantic fury. 
In a word, he exhibits, to the life, all the detestable passions 
that rankle in the bosom of a savage ; and, such is the spell 
in which his senses are locked, that, no sooner has the 
unhappy patient recovered from the paroxysm of insanity, 
occasioned by the bite, than he seeks out the destroyer^ for 
the sole purpose of being bitten again. 

I have seen a good old father, his locks as white as snow, 
his steps slow and trembling, beg in vain of his only son to 
quit the lurking place of the worm. My heart bled when 
he turned away ; for I knew the fond hope, that his son 
would be the "staff of his declining years," had supported 
him through many a sorrow. 

Youths of Missouri, would you know the name of this 
reptile ? It is called the Worm of the Still. 



NATIONAL READER. 31 

LESSON XIV. 

Debt and Credit. — Emporium, Trenton. 

I DISLIKE the whole matter of debt and credit — from my 
heart I dislike it ; and think the man, who first invented a 
leger, should be hung in effigy, with his invention tied to 
his feet, that his neck might support him and his works 
together. My reason for thus sweeping at the whole system 
is, not that I believe it totally useless, but that I believe it 
does more mischief than good, produces more trouble than 
accommodation, and destroys more fortunes than it creates 
honestly. 

These opinions are not of a recent date with me : they 
are those upon which I set out in early life, and, as I grew 
older, I became more and more confirmed in them : not that 
I changed my practice, while I held fast my profession, and 
got my fingers burned at last, by trusting my name in a 
day-book ,* for I never did it, because I saw the evil effects 
of credit around me, in every shape and form. 

A visit, this morning, to my old friend, Timothy Coulter, 
called the subject up so forcibly, that I concluded to write 
you a line upon it. His last cow was sold this very morn- 
ing, by the constable, for six dollars, though she cost him 
sixteen ; and they have not left an ear of corn in his crib, 
or a bushel of rye in his barn, much less any of his stock : 
It was what was called the winding up of the concern ; and 
he is now on his good behaviour ; for I heard one of his 
creditors say, that, if he did not go on very straight, he 
would walk him off' to the county prison-ship. Thus has 
ended Timothy's game of debt and credit. 

When he first commenced farming, he was as industrious 
and promising a young man as was to be found ; he worked 
day and night, counted the cost, and pondered on the pur- 
chase of every thing. For a year or two, he kept out of 
debt, lived comfortably and happy, and made money : every 
merchant, that knew him, was ready to make a polite bow : 
each knew him as one of your cash men, and liked his 
custom. The mechanic shook him by the hand, and begged 
his company to dinner, hoping to get a job from him ; and 
even the lawyer, in contemplation of his high character, 
tipped his beaver as he passed him, with a sigh, as much as 
to say, " Tim, you have more sense than half the world ; 
tut that's no consolation to us." 



32 NATIONAL READER. 

By some fatality, Timothy found out, however, that there 
was such a thing as credit. He began soon to have many 
running accounts, and seldom paid for what he got ; it soon 
followed, that the inquiry, " Do I really want this article ?" 
before he bought it, was neglected ; then the price was fre- 
quently not asked ; then he began to be careless about pay- 
day ; his accounts stood, he disputed them when rendered, 
was sued, charged with costs, and, perhaps, slyly, with 
interest too ; and he became a money -borrower before long ; 
but his friends, after a lawsuit had brought them their 
money, were ready to trust him again, and he was as ready 
to buy. The same farce was played over and over, until 
now the end of these things has come ; and, poor fellow, he 
is turned out upon the wide world, without a friend, save a 
wife and six miserable babes. 

I asked the constable for a sight of the execution, and he 
showed it to me. It was issued by young 'squire Bell, and 
I could not but recollect how different was the history of 
this man from that of Timothy. Young Bell was a poor 
boy, and commenced his life with nothing but health and 
trade ; but he adopted, as a sacred maxim, " Pay as you go ;" 
and he frequently told me, he found little difficulty in stick- 
ing to his text. 

The necessaries of life are few, and industry secuTes 
them to every man : it is the elegancies of life that empty 
the purse : the knick-knacks of fashion, the gratification of 
pride, and the indulgence of luxury, make a man poor. To 
gnard against these, some resolution is necessary ; and the 
resolution, once formed, is much strengthened and guarded 
by the habit of paying for every article we buy, at the time. 
If we do so, we shall seldom purchase what our circumstan- 
ces will not afford. 

This was exactly the manner in which Jack Bell pro- 
ceeded. Habit, strengthened by long^ continuance, and 
supported by reason, became second nature. His business 
prospered ; his old purse became filled with Spanish dollars ; 
all his purchases, being made for cash, were favourable ; and, 
by always knowing how he stood mth the world, he avoided 
all derangement in his affairs. He is now the 'squire of a 
little village, with a good property, a profitable business, and 
the respect of all who know him. 

Young reader, who hast not entered on the stage af busi- 
ness, when you come forward in the world, go and do like- 
wise, and you shall have like reward. 



NATIONAL READER. 33 

LESSON XV. 

The Indians.— National Republican, Cincinnati. 

There are many traits of the Indian character hig"hly 
interesting to the philosopher and Christian. Their uncon- 
querable attachment to their pristine modes and habits of 
life, which counteracts every effort towards civilization, fur- 
nishes to the philosopher a problem too profound for solution. 
Their simple and unadorned religion, the same in all ages, 
and free from the disguise of hypocrisy, which they have 
received, by tradition, from their ancestors, leads the mind 
to a conclusion, that they possess an unwritten revelation 
from God, intended for their benefit, which ought to induce 
us to pause before we undertake to convert them to a more 
refined and less explicit faith. 

The religion of the Indian appears to be fitted for that 
state and condition, in which his Maker has been pleased to 
place him. He believes in one Supreme Being — with all 
the mighty attributes which we ascribe to God — whom he 
denominates the Great and Good Spirit, and worships in a 
devout manner, and from whom he invokes blessings on 
himself and friends, and curses on his enemies. 

Our Maker has left none of his intelligent creatures with- 
out a Avitness of himself. Long before the human mind is 
capable of a course of metaphysical reasoning upon the 
connexion which exists between cause and effect, a sense of 
Deity is inscribed upon it. It is a revelation which the 
Deity has made of himself to man, and which becomes 
more clear and intelligible, according to the manner and 
degree in which it is improved. In the Indian, whose mind 
has never been illumined by the light of science, it appears 
weak and obscure. 

Those moral and political improvements, which are the 
pride and boast of man in polished society, and which result 
from mental accomplishments, the savage views with a jea- 
lous sense of conscious inferiority. Neither his reason, nor 
his invention, appears to have been exercised for the high 
and noble purposes of human excellence ; and, while he 
pertinaciously adheres to traditional prejudices and passions, 
he improves upon those ideas only, which he has received 
through the senses. ' 

Unaided by any other light than that which he has re- 



34 NATIONAL READER. 

ceived from the Father of lights, the Indian penetrates the 
dark curtain, which separates time and eternity, and believes 
in the immortality of the soul, and the resurrection of the 
body, not only of all mankind, but of all animated nature, 
and a state of future existence, of endless duration. It is, 
therefore, their general custom to bury, with the dead, their 
bows, arrows, and spears, that they may be prepared to com- 
mence their course in another state. 

Man is seldom degraded so low, but that he hopes, and 
believes, that death will not prove the extinction of his being. 
Is this a sentiment resulting from our fears or our passions ? 
Or, rather, is it not the inspiration of the Almighty, vv^hich 
gives us this understanding, and which has been imparted to 
all the children of men ? A firm belief in the immortality 
of the soul, with a devout sense of the general superintending 
power, essentially supreme, constitutes the fundamental arti- 
cle of the Indian's faith. 

His reason, though never employed in high intellectual 
attainments and exertions, is less corrupted and perverted 
while he roams in his native forests than in an unrestricted 
intercourse with civilized man. ^ ^ =^ He beholds, in 
the rising sun, the manifestation of divine goodness, and 
pursues the chase with a fearless and unshaken confidence 
in the protection of that great and good Spirit, whose watch- 
ful care is over all his works. 

Let us not, then, attribute his views of an omniscient and 
omnipresent Being to the effect of a sullen pride of inde- 
pendence, and his moral sense of right and wrong to a heart- 
less insensibility. Deprived, by the peculiarities of his 
situation, of those offices of kindness and tenderness, which 
soften the heart, and sweeten the intercourse of life, in a 
civilized state, we should consider him a' being doomed to 
suffer the evils of the strongest and most vigorous passions, 
without the consolation of those divine and human virtues, 
which dissipate our cares, and alleviate our sorrows. 

It is now two hundred years since attempts have been 
made, and unceasingly persevered in, by the pious and 
benevolent, to civilize, and Christianize, the North American 
savage, until millions of those unfortunate beings, including 
many entire tribes, have become extinct. The few, who 
remain within the precincts of civilized society, stand as 
human monuments of Gothic grandeur, fearful and tremu- 
lous amidst the revolutions of time. 

Neither the pride of rank, the allurements of honours, 



NATIONAL READER. 35 

nor the hopes of distinction, can afford to the Indian a ray 
of comfort, or the prospect of better days. He contem'plates 
the past as the returnless seasons of happiness and joy, and 
rushes to the wilderness as a refuge from the blandishments 
of art, and the pomp and show of polished society, to seek, 
in his native solitudes, the cheerless gloom of ruin and 
desolation. 



LESSON XVI. 

Story and Speech of Logan. — Jefferson. 

The principles of society, among the American Indians, 
forbidding all compulsion, they are to be led to duty, and to 
enterprise, by personal influence and persuasion. Hence, 
eloquence in council, bravery and address in war, become the 
foundations of all consequence with them. To these ac- 
quirements all their faculties are directed. Of their bravery 
and address in war, we have multiplied proofs, because we 
have been the subjects on which they were exercised. 

Of their eminence in oratory, we have fewer examples, 
because it is displayed, chiefly, in their own councils. 
Some, however, we have of very superior lustre. I may 
challenge the whole orations of Demosthenes and Cicero, 
and of any more eminent orator, — if Europe has furnish- 
ed more eminent, — to produce a single passage, superior to 
the speech of Logan, a Mingo chief, to Lord Dunmore, when 
governor of Virginia. And, as a testimony of their talents 
in this line, I beg leave to introduce it, first stating the inci- 
dents necessary for understanding it. 

In the spring of the year 1774, a robbery was committed 
by some Indians on certain land adventurers on the rivel 
Ohio. The whites, in that quarter, according to their cus- 
tom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summary way. 
Captain Michael Cresap, and a certain Daniel Greathouse, 
leading on these parties, surprised, at different times, travel- 
ling and hunting parties of the Indians, having their women 
and children Avith them, and murdered many. Among 
these were, unfortunately, the family of Logan, a chief, 
celebrated in peace and war, and long distinguished as the 
friend of the whites. 



36 NATIONAL READER. 

This unworthy return provoked his vengeance. He ac- 
cordingly signalized himself in the war which ensued. In 
the autumn of the same year, a decisive hattle was fought at 
the mouth of the Great Kenhaway, between the collected 
forces of the Shawanese, Mingoes, and Delawares, and a 
detachment of the Virginia militia. The Indians were de- 
feated, and sued for peace. Logan, however, disdained to 
be seen among the suppliants. But, lest the sincerity of a 
treaty should be distrusted, from which so distinguished a 
chief absented himself, he sent, by a messenger, the follow- 
ing speech, to be delivered to lord Dunmore. 

" I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered 
, Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat : if ever 
he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During 
the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained 
idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love 
for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, 
and said, 'Logan is the friend of white men.' I had 
even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of 
one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, 
and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not 
even sparing my women and children. There runs not a 
drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This 
called on me for revenge. I have sought it : I have killed 
many : I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my coun- 
try, I rejoice at the beams of peace : but do not harbour a 
thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. 
He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there 
to mourn for Logan? — Not one." 



LESSON XVIL 

Geehale — An hidian Lament. — Statesman, JV". York. 

The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore 
As sweetly and gaily as ever before ; 
For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, 
And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. ** 

The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright. 
And reflects o'er our mountains as beamy a light, 
As it ever reflected, or ever expressed, 
When my skies were the bluest, my dreams wer^ the best. 



NATIONAL READER. 37 

The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, 

Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, 

And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track. 

For they know that their mates are expecting them back. 

Each bird, and each beast, it is blest in degree : 

All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. 

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair ; 
I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair ; 
I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows, 
And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes ; 
I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed. 
For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead ; 
But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay ; 
The steel of the white man hath swept them away. 

This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, 
I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore ; 
Its charms I no longer obey, or invoke ; 
Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. 
I will raise up my voice to the source of the light ; 
I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night ; 
I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves. 
And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves ; 
And will take a new Manito — such as shall seem 
To be kind and propitious in every dream. 

Oh ! then I shall banish these cankering sighs. 
And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes ; 
I shall wash from my face every cloud-coloured stain 
Red — red shall, alone, on my visage remain ! 
I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow ; 
By night, and by day, I will follow the foe ; 
Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor snows ; — 
His blood can, alone, give my spirit repose. 

They came to my cabin, when heaven was black : 
I heard not their coming, I knew not their track ; 
But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees. 
They were people engendered beyond the big seas : 
My wife, and my children, — oh spare me the tale ! — 
For who is there left that is kin to Geehale ! 
4 



38 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XVIII. 

Fall of Tecumseh. — Statesman, N. York. 

What heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam, 
To the war-blast indignantly tramping ? 

Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam, 
The steel bit impatiently champing. 

Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein, 

Conducting the free and the fearless. 
Ah ! see them rush forward, with wild disdain. 

Through paths unfrequented and cheerless. 

From the mountains had echoed the charge of death, 

Announcing that chivalrous"^ sally ; 
The savage was heard, with untrembling breath, 

To pour his response from the valley. 

One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard, 
And nought but the war-whoop given ; 

The next — and the sky seemed convulsively stirred, 
As if by the lightning riven. 

The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke, 

The blood-stifled gasp of the dying, 
Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke, 

That upward went wildly flying. 

In the mist that hung over the field of blood, 
The chief of the horsemen contended ; 

His rowels were bathed in the purple flood, 
That fast from his charger descended. 

That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight. 
But the rider repressed not his daring. 

Till met by a savage, whose rank, and might. 
Were shown by the plume he was wearing. 

The moment was fearful ; a mightier foe 
Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him ; 

But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow, 
And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him. 

* cA as in church. 



I 



NATIONAL READER. 39 

O ne'er may the nations again be cursed 

With conflict so dark and appalling- ! — 
Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood burst 

From their agonized bosoms in falling. 

Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot, 
Where the hopes of the red man perished ; 

But the fame of the hero who fell shall not, 
By the virtuous, cease to be cherished. 

He fought, in defence of his kindred and king, 

With a spirit most loving and loyal, 
And long shall the Indian warrior sing 

The deeds of Tecumseh, the royal. 

The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye, 

In his arm slept the force of the thunder, 
But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by, 

And left the freed captive to wonder. "* 

Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps, 

With a rudely-built tumulus o'er him ; 
And the bright-bosomed Thames, in its majesty, sweeps 

By the mound where his followers bore him. 



LESSON XIX. 

Monument Mountain, — Bryant. 

Thou, who would'st see the lovely and the wild 
Mingled, in harmony, on Nature's face, 
Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot 
Fail not with weariness, for, on their tops, 
The beauty and the majesty of earth. 
Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget 
The steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand'st, 
The haunts of men below thee, and, above, 
The mountain summits, thy expanding heart 
Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world, 

* This highly intellectual savage, appropriately styled " king of the 
woods," was no less distinguished for his acts of humanity than heroism. 
He fell in the bloody charge at Moravian town, during the war of 1812-15. 



40 NATIONAL READER. 

To which thou art translated, and partake 

The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look 

Upon the green and rolling forest tops, 

And down into the secrets of the glens 

And streams, that, with their bordering thickets, strive 

To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once, 

Here on w^hite villages, and tilth, and herds. 

And swarming roads ; and, there, on solitudes, 

That only hear the torrent, and the wind, 

And eagle's shriek There is a precipice, 

That seems a fragment of some mighty wall. 

Built by the hand that fashioned the old world. 

To separate its nations, and thrown down 

AVhen the flood drowned them. To the north, a path 

Conducts you up the narrow battlement. 

Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild 

With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint, 

And many a hanging crag. But, to the east, 

Sheer to the vale, go down the bare old clifls, — 

Huge pillars, that, in middle heaven, upbear 

Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark 

With the thick moss of centuries, and there 

Of chalky whiteness, where the thunderbolt 

Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing 

To stand upon the beetling verge, and see 

Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall, 

Have tumbled down vast blocks, and, at the base, 

Dashed them in fragments ; and to lay thine ear 

Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound 

Of winds, that struggle with the Avoods below, 

Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene 

Is lovely round. A beautiful river there 

Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads, 

The paradise he made unto himself, 

Mining the soil for ages. On each side 

The fields swell upward to the hills ; beyond, 

Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise 

The mighty columns with which earth props heaven. 

There is a tale about these gray old rocks, 
A sad tradition of unhappy love 
And sorrows borne and ended, long ago. 
When, over these fair vales, the savage sought 
His game in the thick woods. There was a maid, 



NATIONAL READER. 41 

The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed, 

With wealth of raven tresses, a light form, 

And a gay heart. About her cabin door 

The wide old woods resounded with her song 

And fairy laughter all the summer day. 

She loved her cousin ; such a love was deemed. 

By the morality of those stern tribes, 

Unlawful, and she struggled hard and long 

Against her love, and reasoned with her heart, 

As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. 

Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step 

Its lightness, and the gray old men, that passed 

Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more 

The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks 

Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said, 

Upon the Winter of their age. She went 

To weep where no eye saw, and was not found 

When all the merry girls were met to dance, 

And all the hunters of the tribe were out ; 

Nor when they gathered, from the rustling husk, 

The shining ear ; nor when, by the river side. 

They pulled the grape, and startled the wild shades 

With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames 

Would whisper to each other, as they saw 

Her Avasting form, and say. The girl will die. 

One day, into the bosom of a friend, 
A playmate of her young and innocent years, 
She poured her griefs. " Thou know'st, and thou alone," 
She said, " for I have told thee, all my love, 
And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life. 
All night I weep in darkness, and the morn 
Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed, 
That has no business on the earth. I hate 
The pastimes, and the pleasant toils, that once 
I loved ; the cheerful voices of my friends 
Have an unnatural horror in mine ear. 
In dreams, my mother, from the land of souls, 
Calls me, and chides me. All that look on me 
-Do seem to know my shame ; I cannot bear 
Their eyes ; I cannot from my heart root out 
The love that wrings it so, and I must die." 

It was a summer morning, and they went 

To this old precipice. About the cliffs 

Lav garlands, ears of maize, and skins of wolf 
4* 



42 NATIONAL READER. 

And shaggy bear, the offerings of the tribe 

Here made to the Great Spirit ; for they deemed, 

Like worshippers of the elder time, that God 

Doth walk on the high places, and affect 

The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on 

The ornaments, with which the father loved 

To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl. 

And bade^ her wear when stranger warriors came 

To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down, 

And sung, all day, old songs of love and death, 

And decked the poor wan victim's hair with flowers, 

And prayed that safe and swift might be her way 

To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief 

Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 

Beautiful lay the region of her tribe 

Below her ; — ^waters, resting in the embrace 

Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades, 

Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 

She gazed upon it long, and, at the sight 

Of her own village, peeping through the trees, 

And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof 

Of him she loved with an unlawful love. 

And came to die for, a warm gush of tears 

Ran from her eyes. But, when the sun grew low, 

And the hill-shadows long, she threw herself 

From the steep rock, and perished. There was scooped. 

Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave ; 

And there they laid her, in the very garb 

With which the maiden decked herself for death. 

With the same withering wild flowers in her hair. 

And, o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe 

Built up a simple monument, a cone 

Of small loose stones. Thenceforward, all who passed, 

Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone. 

In silence, on the pile. It stands there yet. 

And Indians, from the distant west, that come 

To visit where their fathers' bones are laid. 

Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and, to this day. 

The mountain, where the hapless maiden died, 

Is called the Mountain of the Monument. 

* Pron. bad. 



NATIONAL READER. 43 



LESSON XX. 

Grandeur and Tnoral interest of American Antiquities. — 

T. Flint. 

You will expect me to say something of the lonely records 
of the former races that inhabited this country. That there 
has, formerly, been a much more numerous population than 
exists here at present, I am fully impressed, from the result 
of my own personal observations. From the highest points 
of the Ohio, to where I am now ^vriting,^ and far up the 
upper Mississippi and Missouri, the more the country is 
explored and peopled, and the more its surface is penetrated, 
not only are there more mounds brought to view, but more 
incontestable marks of a numerous population. 

Wells, artificially walled, different structures of conve- 
nience or defence, have been found in such numbers, as no 
longer to excite curiosity. Ornaments of silver and of cop- 
per, pottery, of which I have seen numberless specimens on 
all these waters, — not to mention the mounds themselves, 
and the still more tangible evidence of human bodies found 
in a state of preservation, and of sepulchres full of bones, — 
are unquestionable demonstrations, that this country was 
once possessed of a numerous population. ^ ^ ^ The 
mounds themselves, though of earth, are not those rude and 
shapeless heaps, that they have been commonly represented 
to be. I have seen, for instance, in different parts of the 
Atlantic country, the breast-works and other defences of earth, 
that were thrown up by our people during the war of the 
revolution. None of those monuments date back more than 
fifty years. These mounds must date back to remote depths 
in the olden time. 

From the ages of the trees on them, and from other data, 
we can trace them back six hundred years, leaving it entirely 
to the imagination to descend farther into the depths of time 
beyond. And yet, after the rains, the washing, and the 
crumbling of so many ages, many of them are still twenty- 
five feet high. All of them are, incomparably, more con- 
spicuous monuments than the works which I just noticed. 
Some of them are spread over an extent of acres. I have 
seen, great and small, I should suppose, a hundred. Though 

* St. Charles, on the Missouri. 



44 ^ NATIONAL READER. . 

diverse, in position and form, they all have an uniform cha- 
racter. 

They are, for the most part, in rich soils, and in conspicu- 
ous situations. Those on the Ohio are covered with very 
large trees. But in the prairie regions, where I have seen 
the greatest numbers, they are covered with tall grass, and 
generally near benches, — which indicate the former courses 
of the rivers, — in the finest situations for present culture ; and 
the greatest population clearly has been in those very posi- 
tions, where the most dense future population will be. =^ ^ ^ 

The English, when they sneer at our country, speak of it 
as steril in moral interest. " It has," say they, " no monu- 
ments, no ruins, none of the massive remains of former ages ; 
no castles, no mouldering abbeys, no baronial towers and 
dungeons ; nothing to connect the imagination and the heart 
with the past ; no recollections of former ages, to associate 
the past with the future." 

But I have been attempting sketches of the largest and 
most fertile valley in the world, larger, in fact, than half of 
Europe, all its remotest points being brought into proximity 
by a stream, which runs the length of that continent, and to 
which all but two or three of the rivers of Europe are but 
rivulets. Its forests make a respectable figure, even placed 
beside Blenheim park. 

We have lakes which could find a place for the Cumber- 
land lakes in the hollow of one of their islands. We have 
prairies, which have struck me as among the sublimest pros- 
pects in nature. There we see the sun rising over a bound- 
less plain, where the blue of the heavens, in all directions, 
touches and mingles with the verdure of the flowers. It is, 
to me, a view far more glorious than that on which the sun 
rises over a barren and angry waste of sea. The one is soft, 
cheerful, associated with life, and requires an easier effort of 
the imagination to travel beyond the eye. The other is 
grand, but drear}^, desolate, and always ready to destroy. 

In the most pleasing positions of these prairies, we have 
our Indian mounds, which proudly rise above the plain. 
At first the eye mistakes them for hills ; but, when it catches 
the regularity of their breast-works and ditches, it discovers, 
at once, that they are the labours of art and of m.en. 

When the evidence of the senses convinces us that human 
bones moulder in these masses ; when you dig about them, 
and bring to light their domestic utensils ; and are compelled 
to believe, that the busy tide of life once flowed here ; 



NATIONAL READER. 45 

when you see, at once, that these races were of a very 
different character from the present generation, — ^you begin 
to inquire if any tradition, if any, the faintest, records can 
throw any light upon these habitations of men of another 

age. 

Is there no scope, beside these mounds, for imagination, 
and for contemplation of the past? The men, their joys, 
their sorrows, their bones, are all buried together. Btit the 
grand features of nature remain. There is the beautiful 
prairie, over which they "strutted through life's poor play." 
The forests, the hills, the mounds, lift their heads in unal- 
terable repose, and furnish the same sources of contemplation 
to us, that they did to those generations that have passed 
away. 

It is true, we have little reason to suppose, that they were 
the g"uilty dens of petty tyrants, who let loose their half 
savage vassals to burn, plunder, enslave, and despoil an 
adjoining den. There are no remains of the vast and use- 
less monasteries, where ignorant and lazy monks dreamed 
over their lusts, or meditated their vile plans of acquisition 
and imposture. 

Here must have been a race of men, on these charming 
plains, that had every call from the scenes that surrounded 
them, to contented existence and tranquil meditation. Un- 
fortunate, as men view the thing, they must have been. 
Innocent and peaceful they probably were ; for, had they 
been reared amidst wars and quarrels, like the present 
Indians, they would, doubtless, have maintained their ground, 
and their posterity would have remained to this day. Be- 
side them moulder the huge bones of their contemporary 
beasts, which must have been of thrice the size of the 
elephant. 

I cannot judge of the recollections excited by castles and 
towers that I have not seen. But I have seen all of gran- 
deur, Avhich our cities can displa}?". I have seen, too, these 
lonely tombs of the desert, — seen them rise from these 
boundless and unpeopled plains. My imagination and my 
heart have been full of the past. The nothingness of the 
brief dream of human life has forced itself upon my mind. 
The unknown race, to which these bones belonged, had, I 
doubt not, as many projects of ambition, and hoped, as san- 
guinely, to have their names survive, as the great ones of 
the present day. 



46 NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON XXL 

On the Barroivs^ or Monumental Mounds, in the prairies of 
the Western Rivers. — M. Flint. 

The sun's last rays were fading from the west, 
The deepening shade stole slowly o'er the plain, 

The evening breeze had lulled itself to rest, 

And all was silence, — save the mournful strain 
With which the widowed turtle wooed, in vain. 

Her absent lover to her lonely nest. 

Now, one by one, -emerging to the sight, 

The brighter stars assumed their seats on high ; 

The moon's pale crescent glowed serenely bright, 
As the last twilight fled along the sky, 
And all her train, in cloudless majesty. 

Were glittering on the dark blue vault of night. 

I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound, 
And gazed, enraptured, on the lovely scene ; 

From the dark summit of an Indian mound 
I saw the plain, outspread in living green ; 
Its fringe of cliffs was, in the distance, seen, 

And the dark line of forests sweeping round. 

- I saw the lesser mounds which round me rose ; 

Each was a giant heap of mouldering clay ; 
There slept the warriors, women, friends, and foes, 

There, side by side, the rival chieftains lay ; 

And mighty tribes, swept from the face of day. 
Forgot their wars, and found a long repose. 

Ye mouldering relics of departed years. 

Your names have perished ; not a trace remains. 

Save where the grass-grown mound its summit rears 
From the green bosom of your native plains. 
Say, do your spirits wear oblivion's chains ? 

Did death forever quench your hopes and fears ? 

•^' ■H- ■itf -il. 

-A- ■ ^ "T? W 

Or did those fairy hopes of future bliss. 
Which simple nature to your bosoms gave, 



NATIONAL READER. 47 

Find other worlds with fairer skies, than this, 

Beyond the gloomy portals of the grave, 
- In whose hright climes the virtuous"^ and the brave 
Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ? — 

Where the great hunter still pursues the chase, 
And, o'er the sunny mountains, tracks the deer ; 

Or where he finds each long-extinguished race. 
And sees, once more, the mighty mammoth rear 
The giant form which lies imbedded here, 

Of other ye'ars the sole remaining trace. 

Or, it may be, that still ye linger near 

The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride ; 

And, could your forms to mortal eye appear, 
Or the dark veil of death be thrown aside. 
Then might I see your restless shadows glide, 

"With watchful care, around these relics dear. 

If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet 

Which trod so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead.^ 

I would not thus profane their lone retreat. 

Nor trample where the sleeping warrior's head 
L-iy pillowed on his everlasting bed, 

Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet. 

Farewell ! and may you still, in peace, repose ; 
Still o'er you may the flowers, untrodden, bloom, 

And softly wave to every breeze that blows. 
Casting their fragrance on each lonely tomb. 
In which your tribes sleep in earth's common womb, 

And mingle with the clay from which they rose. 



LESSON XXII. 

The American Indian^ as he luas, and as he is. — C. Sprague. 

Not many generations ago, where you now sit, circled 
with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank 
thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole 

* Pron. ver'-tshu-ous. ' 



48 NATIONAL READER. 

unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. 
Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian 
hunter pursued the panting deer : gazing on the same moon 
that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate. 

Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and help- 
less, the council-fire glared on the wise and daring. Now 
they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now 
they paddled the light canoe"^ along your rocky shores. 
Here they warred ; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, 
the defying death-song, all were here ; and, when the tiger 
strife was over, here curled the smoke of peace. 

Here, too, they worshipped ; and from many a dark bo- 
som went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit, He had 
not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had 
traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child 
of nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of 
the universe he acknowledged in every thing around. 

He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty behind his 
lonely dwelling ; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from 
his mid-day throne ; in the flower that snapped in the morn- 
ing breeze ; in the lofty pine, that defied a thousand whirl- 
winds ; in the timid warbler, that never left its native grove j 
in the fearless eagle, whose untired pinion was wet in 
clouds ; in the worm that crawled at his foot ; and in his 
own matchless form, glowing with a spark of that light, to 
whose mysterious Source he bent, in humble, though blind 
adoration. 

And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came a 
pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The 
former were sown for you ; the latter sprang up in the path 
of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed 
the character of a great continent, and blotted, forever, from 
its face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bow- 
ers of nature, and the anointed children of education have 
been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. 

Here and there, a stricken few remain ; but how unlike 
their bold, untamed, untameable progenitors ! The Indian, 
of falcont glance, and lion bearing, the theme of the touch- 
ing ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone ! and his 
degraded offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in 
majesty, to remind us how miserable is man, when the foot 
of the conqueror is on his neck. 

* Pron. ca-noo'. ' t Pron. faw'-kn. 



NATIONAL READER. 49 

As a race, they have withered from the land. Their 
arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins 
are in the dust. Their council-fire has long since gone out 
on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to the untrod- 
den west. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant moun- 
tains, and read their doom in the setting sun. They are 
shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them 
away ; they must soon hear the roar of the last wave, which 
will settle over them forever. 

Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by 
some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their 
disturbed remains, and wonder to what manner of person 
they belonged. They will live only in the songs and chro- 
nicles of their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their 
rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy 
fate as a people. 



LESSON XXIIL 

The Grave a place of rest. — ^Mackenzie. 

The grave is a place where the weary are at rest. How 
soothing is this sentiment, " The weary are at rest !" There 
is something in the expression which affects the heart with 
uncommon sensations, and produces a species of delight, 
where tranquillity is the principal ingredient. The senti- 
ment itself is extensive, and implies many particulars : it 
implies, not only that we are delivered from the troubling of 
the wicked, as in the former clause, but from every trouble 
and every pain, to which life is subjected. 

Those, only, who have themselves been tried in affliction, 
can feel the full force of this expression. Others may be 
pleased with the sentiment, and affected by sympathy. The 
distressed are, at once, pleased and comforted. To be de- 
livered from trouble — to be relieved from power — to see op- 
pression humbled^ — to be freed from care and pain, from 
sickness and distress — to lie down as in a bed of security, 
in a long oblivion of our woes — to sleep, in peace, without 
the fear of interruption — how pleasing is the prospect ! how 
full of consolation ! 

* Pron. um'-bl'd. 



50 NATIONAL READER. 

The ocean may roll its waves, the warring- winds may 
join their forces, the thunders may shake the skies,"^ and 
the lightnings pass, swiftly, from cloud to cloud : but not 
the forces of the elements, combined, not the sounds of 
thunders, nor of many seas, though they were united into 
one peal, and directed to one point, can shake the security 
of the tomb. 

The dead hear nothingt of the tumult ; they sleep sound- 
ly; they rest from their calamities upon beds of peace. Con- 
ducted to silent mansions, they cannot be troubled by the 
rudest assaults, nor awakened by the loudest clamour. The 
unfortunate, the oppressed, the broken-hearted, with those 
that have languished on beds of sickness, rest here together : 
they have forgot their distresses ; every sorrow is hushed, 
and every pang extinguished. 

Hence, in all nations, a set of names have arisen to con- 
vey the idea of death, congenial with these sentiments, and 
all of them expressive of supreme felicity and consolation. 
How does the human mind, pressed by real or imagined 
calamities, delight to dwell upon that a"\vful event which 
leads to deliverance, and to describe and solicit it with the 
fairest flowers of fancy ! 

It is called the harbour of rest, in whose deep bosom the 
disastered mariner, who had long sustained the assaults of 
adverse storms, moors his wearied vessel, never more to 
return to the tossings of the wasteful ocean. It is called the 
land of peace, whither the friendless exile retires, beyond 
the reach of malice and injustice, and the cruelest arrows 
of fortune. It is called the hospitable house, where the 
weather-beaten traveller, faint with traversing pathless de- 
serts, finds a welcome and secure repose. 

There no cares molest, no passions distract, no enemies 
defame ; there agonizing pain, and wounding infamy, and 
ruthless revenge, are no more ; but profound peace, and 
calm passions, and security which is immoveable. " There 
the wicked cease from troubling ; there the weary are at 
rest ! There the prisoners rest together ! they hear not the 
voice of the oppressor ! The small and the great are there, 
and the servant is free from his master !" 

* Pron. skeiz. t Pron. nuth-ing. 



NATIONAL READER. «51 



LESSON XXIV. 

On the custom of planting fioioers on the graves of departed 
friends. — Blackwood's Magazine. 

To 'scape from chill misfortune's gloom, 
From helpless age and joyless years ; 

To sleep where flov/erets round us bloom ; — 
Can such a fate deserve our tears ? 

Since, in the tomb, our cares, our woes, 

In dark oblivion buried lie, 
Why paint that scene of calm repose 
- In figures painful to the eye ? 

To die ! — what is in death to fear ? 

'Twill decompose my lifeless frame ! 
A Power, unseen, still watches near, 

To light it with a purer flame. 

And, when anew that flame shall burn, 
Perhaps the dust, that lies enshrined, 

May rise, a woodbine, o'er my urn. 
With verdant tendrils round it twined. 

How would the gentle bosom beat, 

That sighs at death's resistless power, 

A faithful friend again to meet 

Fresh blooming in a fragrant flower ! 

The love, that in my bosom glows. 
Will live when I shall long be dead, 

And, haply, tinge some budding rose 
That blushes o'er my grassy bed. 

O, thou who hast so long been dear, 
When I shall cease to smile on thee, 

I know that thou wilt linger here, 
With pensive soul, to sigh for me. 

Thy gentle hand will sweets bestoTV, 
Transcending Eden's boasted bloom ; 

Each flower with brighter tints shall glow 
When Love and Beauty seek my tomb. 



52 NATIONAL READER. 

And, when the rose-bud's virgin breath 
With fragrance fills the morning air, 

Imagine me released from death, 
And all my soul reviving there. 



LESSON XXV. 



Thoughts of a young man in the prospect of death.- 

Henry K. White. 

Sad, solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils, 
Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind. 
Communing lonely with his sinking soul. 
And musing on the dubious glooms that lie 
In dim obscurity before him, — thee, 
Wrapped in thy dark magnificence, I call 
At this still, midnight hour, this awful season, 
When, on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, 
I turn me, wearisome. While all, around, 
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness, 
I only wake to watch the sickly taper 
Which lights me to my tomb. — Yes, 'tis the hand 
Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals. 
Slow-sapping the w^arm current of existence. 

My moments now are few. — The sand of life 
Ebbs fastly to its finish. — Yet a little, 
And the last fleeting particle will fall, 
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. 
Come, then, sad Thought, and let us meditate, 
While meditate we may. — There's left us now 
But a small portion of what men call time. 
To hold communion ; for, even now, the knife, 
The separating knife, I feel divide 
The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. 
Yes, I must die — I feel that I must die ; 
And though, to me, life has been dark and dreary, 
Though hope, for me, has smiled but to deceive, 
And disappointment marked me as her victim. 
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me, 
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death. 
The shuddering void, the awful blank — futurity. 



NATIONAL READER. 53 

Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme 
Of earthly happiness — romantic schemes, 
And fraught with loveliness : — and it is hard 
To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps, 
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes, 
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, 
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. 

Fifty 3^ears hence, and who will hear of Henry ? 
O, none : — another busy brood of beings 
Will shoot up in the interim, and none 
Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink 
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets 
Of busy London : — some short bustle's caused, 
A few inquiries, and the crowds close in. 
And all's forgotten. On my grassy grave 
The men of future times will careless tread, 
And read my name upon the sculptured stone ; 
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, 
Recall my vanished memory. I did hope 
For better things : — I hoped I should not leave 
The earth without a vestige. Fate decrees 
It shall be otherwise, — and I submit. 

Henceforth, O world, no more of thy desires ! 
No more of hope I — the wanton, vagrant hope ! 
I abjure all. — Now other cares engross me, 
And my tired soul, with emulative haste, 
Looks to its God, and plumbs its wings for heaven. 



LESSON XXVI. 

The Grave. — Berxard Barton, 

I LOVE to muse, when none are nigh, 
Where yew tree branches wave. 

And hear the winds, with softest sigh, 
Sweep o'er the grassy grave. 

It seems a mournful music, meet 

To soothe a lonely hour ; 

Sad though it be, it is more sweet 

Than that from Pleasure's bower. 
5* 



54 NATIONAL READER. 

I know not why it should be sad, 

Or seem a mournful tone, 
Unless by man the spot be clad 

With terrors not its own. 

To nature it seems just as dear 

As earth's most cheerful site ; 
The dew-drops glitter there as clear, 

The sun-beams shine as bright. 

The showers descend as softly there 

As on the loveliest flowers ; 
Nor does the moon-light seem more fair 

On Beauty's sweetest bowers. 

" Ay ! but within — within, there sleeps 
One, o'er whose mouldering clay 

The loathsome earth-worm winds and creeps 
And wastes that form away." 

And what of that ? The frame that feeds 

The reptile tribe below. 
As little of their banquet heeds, * 

As of the winds that blow. 



LESSON XXVII. 

The Fall of the Leaf. — Milonov.^ 

The autumnal winds had stripped the field 

Of all its foliage, all its green ; 
The winter's harbinger had stilled 

That soul of song which cheered the scene. 

With visage pale, and tottering gait, 
As one who hears his parting knell, 

I saw a youth disconsolate : — 

He came to breathe his last farewell. 

" Thou grove ! how dark thy gloom to me ! ■ 
' Th}?- glories riven by autumn's breath ! 

* From Bowring's Russian Anthology, Vol. II. 



NATIONAL READER. 55 

In every falling leaf I see 

A threatening messenger of death. 

" jEsculapius !=^ in my ear 

Thy melancholy warnings chime : — 

' Fond youth ! bethink thee, thou art here 
A wanderer — for the last, -last time. 

" Thy spring will winter's gloom o'ershade, 
Ere yet the fields are white with snow ; 

Ere yet the latest flowerets fade. 

Thou, in thy grave, wilt sleep below.' 

" I hear the hollow murmuring — 

The cold wind rolling o'er the plain — 

Alas ! the brightest days of spring 

How swift ! how sorrowful I how vain ! 

•' O wave, ye dancing boughs, O wave ! 

Perchance to-morrow's dawn may see 
My mother, weeping on my grave : — 

Then consecrate my memory. 

' " I see, with loose, dishevelled hair, 
Covering her snowy bosom, come 
The angel of my childhood there, 
And dew, with tears, my early tomb. 

" Then, in the autumn's silent eve, 

With fluttering wing and gentlest tread, 

My spirit its calm bed shall leave, 
And hover o'er the mourner's head." 

Then he was silent : — faint and slow 
His steps retraced : — he came no more. 

The last leaf trembled on the bough, 
And his last pang of life was o'er. 

Beneath the aged oaks he sleeps : — 

The angel of his childhood there 
No watch around his tomb-stone keeps, 

But, when the evening stars appear, 

* In the Greek mythology-, the cock was one of the animals consecrated to 
.^culapius, the god of medicine. 



56 NATIONAL READER. 

The woodman, to his cottage bound, 
Close to that grave is wont to tread 

But his rude footsteps, echoed round, 
Break not the silence of the dead. 



LESSON XXVIII. 

Obedience to the CommandTnents of God reivarded. — Moodie. 

The heathen, unsupported by those prospects which the 
Gospel opens, might be supposed to have sunk under every 
trial ; yet, even among them, was sometimes displayed an 
exalted virtue : a virtue, which no interest, no danger, could 
shake : a virtue, which could triumph amidst tortures and 
death : a virtue, which, rather than forfeit its conscious in- 
tegrity, could be content to resign its consciousness forever. 
And shall not the Christian blush to repine ? — the Christian, 
from before whom the veil is removed ; to whose eyes are 
revealed the glories of heaven ? 

Your indulgent Ruler doth not call you to run in vain, or 
to labour in vain. Every difficulty, and every trial, that 
occurs in your path, is a fresh opportunity, presented by his 
kindness, of improving the happiness, after which he hath 
taught you to aspire. By every hardship which you sustain 
in the wilderness, you secure an additional portion of the 
promised land. What though the combat be severe ? A 
kingdom, — an everlasting kingdom, — is the prize of victory. 
Look forward to the triumph which awaits you, and your 
courage will revive. Fight the good fight, finish your 
course, keep the faith : there is laid up for you a crown of 
righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall 
give unto you at that day. 

What though, in the navigation of life, you have some- 
times to encounter the war of elements ? What though the 
winds rage, though the waters roar, and danger threatens 
around ? Behold, at a distance, the mountains appear : 
your friends are impatient for your arrival : already the feast 
is prepared, and the rage of the storm shall serve only to 
waft you sooner to the haven of rest. No tempests assail 
those blissful regions which approach to view : all is peace- 
ful and serene : — there you shall enjoy eternal comfort ; and 
the recollection of the hardships which you now encounter 
shall heighten the felicity of better days. 



NATIONAL READER. 57 

LESSON XXIX. 

The Promises of Religion to the Young. ^Alison. 

In every part of Scripture, it is remarkable with what 
singular tenderness the season of youth is always mention- 
ed, and what hopes are afforded to the devotion of the 
young. It w^as at that age that God appeared unto Moses, 
when he fed his flock in the desert, and called him to the 
command of his own people. It was at that age he visited 
the infant Samuel, while he ministered in the temple of the 
Lord, " in days when the word of the Lord was precious, 
and when there was no open vision." It Avas at that age 
that his spirit fell upon David, while he was yet the youngest 
of his father's sons, and when, among the mountains of Beth- 
lehem, he fed his father's sheep. It was at that age, also, 
" that they brought young children unto Christ, that he 
should touch them : And his disciples rebuked those that 
brought them : But when Jesus saw it, he was much dis- 
pleased, and said to them. Suffer little children to come 
unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of 
heaven." 

If these, then, are the effects and promises of youthful 
piety, rejoice, O young man, in thy youth ! — rejoice in those 
days which are never to return, when religion comes to thee 
in all its charms, and when the God of nature reveals him- 
self to thy soul, like the mild radiance of the morning sun, 
when he rises amid the blessings of a grateful world. 

If, already, devotion hath taught thee her secret plea- 
sures ; if, when nature m.eets thee in all its - magnificence 
or beauty, thy heart humbleth itself in adoration before the 
Hand which made it, and rejoiceth in the contemplation of 
the wisdom by which it is maintained ; if, when revelation 
unveils her mercies, and the Son of God comes forth to 
give peace and hope to fallen man, thine eye follows, with 
astonishment, the glories of his path, and pours, at last, over 
his cross those pious tears which it is a delight to shed ; if 
thy soul accompanieth him in his triumph over the grave, and 
entereth, on the wings of faith, into that heaven " where 
he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high," 
and seeth the " society of angels, and of the spirits of just 
men made perfect," and listeneth to the " everlasting song 
which is sung before the throne:" — if such are the medita- 



58 NATIONAL READER. 

tions in wliich thy youthful hours are passed, renounce not, 
for all that life can offer thee in exchange, these solitary 
joys. The world which is before thee, — the world which 
thine imagination paints in such brightness, — has no plea- 
sures to bestow which can compare with these ; and all that 
its boasted wisdom can produce has nothing so acceptable 
in the sight of heaven, as this pure offering of thy infant 
soul. 

In these days, " the Lord himself is thy Shepherd, and 
thou dost not want. Amid the green pastures, and by the 
still waters" of youth, he now makes " thy soul to repose." 
But the years draw nigh, when life shall call thee to its 
trials ; the evil days are on the wing, when " thou shalt say 
thou hast no pleasure in them ;" and, as thy steps advance, 
" the valley of the shadow of death opens," through which 
thou must pass at last. It is then thou shalt know what it 
is to " remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." 
Jn these days of trial or of awe, " his spirit shall be with 
thee," and thou shalt fear no ill ; and, amid every evil 
which surrounds thee, " he shall restore thy soul. His 
goodness and mercy shall follow thee all the days of thy 
life ;" and when, at last, " the silver cord is loosed," thy 
spirit shall return to the God who gave it, and thou shalt 
dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 



LESSON XXX. 

On the Siviftness of Time. — Dr. Johnson. 

The natural advantages, which arise from the position of 
the earth which we inhabit, with respect to the other pla- 
nets, afford much employment to mathematical speculation, 
by which it has been discovered, that no other conformation 
of the system could have given such commodious distribu- 
tions of light and heat, or imparted fertility and pleasure to 
so great a part of a revolving sphere. 

It may be, perhaps, observed by the moralist, with equal 
reason, that our globe seems particularly fitted for the resi- 
dence of a being, placed here only for a short time, whose 
task is to advance himself to a higher and happier state of 
existence, by unremitted vigilance of caution and activity 
of virtue. 



NATIONAL READER. 59 

The duties required of man are such as human nature 
does not willingly perform, and such as those are inclined 
to delay, who yet intend, some time, to fulfil them. It was, 
therefore, necessary, that this universal reluctance should be 
counteracted, and the drowsiness of hesitation wakened into 
resolve ; that the danger of procrastination should be always 
in view, and the fallacies of security be hourly detected. 

To this end all the appearances of nature uniformly con- 
spire. Whatever we see, on every side, reminds us of the 
lapse of time and the flux of life. The day and night suc- 
ceed each other ; the rotation of seasons diversifies the year ; 
the sun rises, attains the meridian, declines and sets ; and 
the moon, every night, changes its form. 

The day has been considered as an image of the year, 
and a year as the representation of life. The morning 
answers to the spring, and the spring to childhood and 
youth. The noon corresponds to the summer, and the sum- 
mer to the strength of manhood. The evening is an em- 
blem of autumn, and autumn of declining life. The night, 
with its silence and darkness, shows the winter, in which 
all the powers of vegetation are benumbed ; and the winter 
points out the time when life shall cease, with its hopes and 
pleasures. 

He that is carried forward, however swiftly, by a motion 
equable and easy, perceives not the change of place but by 
the variation of objects. If the wheel of life, which rolls 
thus silently along, passed on through undistinguishable uni- 
formity, we should never mark its approaches to the end of 
the course. If one hour were like another ; if the passage of 
the sun did not show that the day is wasting ; if the change 
of seasons did not impress upon us the flight of the year, — 
quantities of duration, equal to days and years, would glide 
unobserved. If the parts of time were not variously coloured, 
we should never discern their departure or succession; but 
should hve, thoughtless of the past, and careless of the fu- 
ture, without will, and, perhaps, without power, to compute 
the periods of life, or to compare the time which is already 
lost with that which may probably remain. 

But the course of time is so visibly marked, that it is even 
observed by the passage, and by nations who have raised 
their minds very little above animal instinct: there are 
human beings, whose language does not supply them with 
words by which they can number five, but I have read of 
none that have not names for day and night, for summer 
and winter. 



60 NATIONAL READER. 

Yet it is certain, that these admonitions of nature, how- 
ever forcible, however importunate, are too often vain ; and 
that many, who mark ^^dth such accuracy the course of time, 
appear to have little sensibility of the decline of life. Every 
man has something to do, which he neglects ; every man has 
faults to conquer, which he delays to combat."^ 

So little do we accustom ourselves to consider the effects 
of time, that things necessary and certain often surprise us 
like unexpected contingencies. We leave the beauty in 
her bloom, and, after an absence of twenty years, wonder, 
at our return, to find her faded. We meet those whom we 
left children, and can scarcely persuade ourselves to treat 
them as men. The traveller visits, in age, those countries 
through which he rambled in his youth, and hopes for mer- 
riment at the old place. The man of business, wearied 
with unsatisfactory prosperity, retires to the town of his 
nati^dty, and expects to play aw^ay his last years with the 
companions of his childhood, and recover youth in the fields 
where he once was young. 

From this inattention, so general and so mischievous, let 
it be every man's study to exempt himself. Let him that 
desires to see others happy, make haste to give while his 
gift can be enjoyed, and remember, that every moment of 
delay takes away something from the value of his benefac- 
tion ; and let him, who proposes his own happiness, reflect, 
that, while he forms his purpose, the day rolls on, and " the 
night Cometh, when no man can work." 



LESSON XXXL 



Li?ies written by one who had long been resident in India, on 
his return to his native country. — Anonymous. 

I CAME, but they had passed away — 

The fair in form, the pure in mind ; — 
And, like a stricken deer, I stray 

Where all are strange, and none are kind, — 
Kind to the worn, the wearied soul, 

That pants, that struggles, for repose. 
O that my steps had reached the goal 

Where earthly sighs and sorrows close ! 

* Pron, cum'-bat. 



NATIONAL READER. 61 

Years have passed o'er me, like a dream 

That leaves no trace on memory's pag^ : 
I look around me, and I seem 

Some relic of a former age. ' " 

Alone, as in a stranger clime. 

Where stranger voices mock my ear, 
I mark the lagging course of time. 

Without a wish, — a hope, — a fear ! 

Yet I had hopes — and they have fled ; 

And fears — and they were all too true ; 
My wishes too — ^but they are dead ; 

And what have I with life to do ? 
'Tis but to wear a. weary load 

I may not, dare not, cast away ; 
To sigh for one small, still abode, 

Where I may sleep as sweet as they ; — 

As they, the loveliest of their race, 

Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep, 
Whose worth my soul delights to trace, 

Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep, — 
To weep beneath the silent moon. 

With none to chide, to hear, to see : 
Life can bestow no greater boon 

On one, whom death disdains to free. 

I leave the world, that knows me not. 

To hold communion with the dead ; 
And fancy consecrates the spot 

Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. 
I see each shade — all silvery white — 

I hear each spirit's melting sigh ; 
I turn to clasp those forms of light, — 

And the pale morning chills my eye. 

But soon the last dim morn shall rise, — 

The lamp of life burns feebly now, — 
When stranger hands shall close my eyes, 

And smooth my cold and dewy brow. 
Unknown I lived ; so let me die ; 

Nor stone, nor monumental cross, 
Tell where his nameless ashes lie. 

Who sighed for gold, and found it dross. 
6 



62 ^ NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XXXII. 

" He shall fly away as a dream" — Anonymous. 

I DUEAMED : — I saw a rosy child, 

With flaxen ringlets, in a garden playing ; 
Now stooping here, and then afar off straying, 

As flower or butterfly his feet beguiled. 

'Twas changed ; one summer's day I stepped aside, 
To let him pass ; his face had manhood's seeming, 
And that full eye of blue was fondly beaming 

On a fair maiden, whom he called his bride. 

Once more ; 'twas evening, and the cheerful fire 
I saw a group of youthful forms surrounding. 
The room with harmless pleasantry resounding ; 

And, in the midst, I marked the smiling sire. 

The heavens were clouded — and I heard the tone 

Of a slow-moving bell : the white-haired man had gone. 



LESSON xxxm. 



The Journey of a Day, — A Picture of Human Life. — 

Dr. Johnson. 

Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansary early 
in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains 
of Hindostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest; he 
was animated with hope ; he was incited by desire : he 
walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills 
gradually rising before him. 

As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the 
morning song of the bird of paradise ; he was fanned by the 
last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew 
by groves of spices : he sometimes contemplated the tower- 
ing height of the oak, monarch of the hills ; and sometimes 
caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter 
of the spring : all his senses were gratified, and all care 
was banished from his heart. 



NATIONAL READER. 63 

Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian, 
and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength ; he then 
looked round ahout him for some more commodious path. 
He saAV, on his right hand, a grove, that seemed to wave its 
shades as a sign of invitation ; he entered it, and found the 
coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He did not, 
however, forget whither he was trav^elling, but found a nar- 
row way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to have 
the same direction with the main road, and was pleased, 
that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite 
pleasure with business, and to gain the rewards of diligence 
without suffering its fatigues. ~ 

He, therefore, still continued to walk for a time, without 
the least remission of his ardour, except that he was some- 
times tempted to stop by the music of the birds, whom the 
heat had assembled in the shade, and sometimes amused 
himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on 
either side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. At 
last, the green path began to decline from its first tendency, 
and to wind among the hills and thickets, cooled with foun- 
tains, and murmuring with water-falls. 

Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider, 
whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and com- 
mon track ; but, remembering that the heat was now in its 
greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, 
he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed only 
to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties 
of the ground, and to end at last in the common road. 

Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, 
though he suspected he was not gaining ground. This 
uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every 
new object, and give way to every sensation that might 
soothe or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mount- 
ed every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every 
cascade, and pleased himself with tracing the course of a 
gentle river, that rolled among the trees, and watered a large 
region, with innumerable circumvolutions. 

In these amusements, the hours passed away unaccounted ; 
his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not 
towards what point to travel. He stood pensive and con- 
fused, afraid to go forward, lest he should go wrong, yet 
conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While 
he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was over- 



64 NATIONAL READER. 

spread with clouds, the day vanished from before him, and 
a sudden tempest gathered round his head. 

He was now roused, by his danger, to a quick and pain- 
ful remembrance of his folly ; he now saw how happiness 
is lost when ease is consulted ; he lamented the unmanly 
impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, 
and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle 
to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, 
and a clap of thunder broke his meditation. 

He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, — 
to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to 
find some issue, where the wood might open into the plain. 
He prostrated himself upon the ground, and commended his 
life to the Lord of nature. He rose with confidence and 
tranquillity, and pressed on with his sabre in his hand ; for 
the beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand 
were heard the mingled howls of rage, and fear, and ravage, 
and expiration : all the horrors of darkness and solitude 
surrounded him ; the winds roared in the woods, and the 
torrents tumbled from the hills. 

"Worked into sudden rage by wintry showers, 
Down the steep hill the roaring torrent pours : 
The mountain shepherd hears the distant noise." 

Thus, forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the 
wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether 
he was every moment drawing nearer to safety or to destruc- 
tion. At length, not fear, but labour, began to overcome 
him ; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he 
was on the point of lying down, in resignation to his fate, 
when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a 
taper. He advanced towards the light, and, finding that it 
proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at 
the door, and obtained admission. The old man sat before 
him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on 
which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude. 

When the repast was over, " Tell me," said the hermit, 
" by what chance thou hast been brought hither : I have 
been now twenty years an inhabitant of this wilderness, in 
which I never saw a man before." Obidah then related 
the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or 
palliation. 

" Son," said the hermit, " let the errors and follies, the 
dangers and escapes, of this day, sink deep into thy heart. 



IN'ATIONAL READER. (55 

Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. 
We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and full of 
expectation ; we set forward with spirit and hope, with 
gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the 
straight road of piety, towards the mansions of rest. In a 
short time we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find some 
mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of ob- 
taining the same end. 

" We then relax our vigour, and resolve no longer to be 
terrified with crimes at a distance; but rely upon our own 
constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never 
to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in 
the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigi- 
lance subsides : we are then willing to inquire whether 
another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, 
at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We 
approach them with scruple and hesitation ; we enter them, 
but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass 
through them without losing the road of virtue, which we, 
for a while, keep in our sight, and to which we propose to 
return. 

" But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance 
prepares us for another ; we, in time, lose the happiness of 
innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. 
By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original 
intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. 
We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in 
luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till 
the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease 
and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon 
our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance ; and 
wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken 
the ways of virtue. 

"Happy are they, my son, who shall learn, from thy 
example, not to despair, but shall remember, that, though the 
day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains 
one effort to be made ; that reformation is never hopeless, 
nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted ; that the wanderer 
may at length return, after all his errors ; and that he, who 
implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger 
and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to 
thy repose ; commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence ; 
and, when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy 
journey and thy life." 
6^ 



66 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XXXIV. 

The Vision of Mirza. — Addison. 

On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the 
custom of my forefathers, I always kept holy, after having 
washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I 
ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest 
of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing 
myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound 
contemplation on the vanity of human life ; and, passing 
from one thought to another, " Surely," said I, " man is but 
a shadow, and life a dream." 

Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the 
summit of a rock, that was not far from ijne, where I disco- 
vered one, in the hahit of a shepherd, with a musical instru- 
ment in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to 
his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was 
exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes, that 
were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from 
any thing I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those 
heavenly airs, that are played to the departed souls of good 
men upon their first arrival in paradise, to wear out the 
impressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the 
pleasures of that happy place. 

My heart melted away in secret raptures. I had been 
often told, that the rock before me was the haunt of a Ge- 
nius ; and that several had been entertained with music, 
who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had 
before made himself visible. When he had raised my 
thoughts, by those transporting airs which he played, to 
taste the pleasure of his conversation, as I looked upon him, 
like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and, by the wav- 
ing of his hand, directed me to approach the place where 
he sat. 

I drew near, with that reverence which is due to a supe- 
rior nature ; and, as my heart was entirely subdued by the 
captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet, and 
wept. The Genius smiled upon me with a look of compas- 
sion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, 
and, at once, dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with 
which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, 



NATIONAL READER. 67 

and, taking me by the hand, " Mirza," said he, " I have heard 
thee in thy soliloquies : follow me." 

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and, 
placing me on the top of it, " Cast thy eyes eastward," said 
he, " and tell me what thou seest." " I see," said I, " a huge 
valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it." 
"The valley that thou seest," said he, "is the valley of 
misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the 
great tide of eternity." "What is the reason," said I, 
" that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and 
again loses itself in a thick mist at the other ?" 

" What thou seest," said he, " is that portion of eternity 
which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching 
from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Ex- 
amine now," said he, " this sea, that is thus bounded with 
darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in 
it." "I see a bridge," said I, "standing in the midst of the 
tide." " The bridge thou seest," said he, " is human life : 
consider it attentively." Upon a more leisurely survey of it, 
I found that it consisted of three-score and ten entire arches, 
with several broken arches, which, added to those that were 
entire, made up the number about a hundred. 

As I was counting the arches, the Genius told me that 
this bridge consisted, at first, of a thousand arches ; but that 
a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the 
ruinous condition I now beheld it. " But tell me farther," 
said he, "what thou discoverest on it." "I see muhitudes 
of people passing over it," said I, " and a black cloud hang- 
ing on each end of it." 

As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passen- 
gers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that 
flowed underneath it; and, upon farther examination, per- 
ceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed 
in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but 
they fell through them into the tide, and immediately dis- 
appeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the 
entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner 
broke through the cloud, than many of them fell into them. 
They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and 
lay' closer together towards the end of the arches that Avere 
entire. 

There were indeed some persons, — but their number was 
very small, — that continued a kind of hobbling march on the 



68 NATIONAL READER. 

broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being 
quite tired and spent with so long a walk. I passed some 
time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and 
the great variety of objects which it presented. 

My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, to see seve- 
ral dropping, unexpectedly, in the midst of mirth and jollity, 
and catching by every thing that stood by them to save 
themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens 
in a thoughtful posture, and, in the midst of a speculation, 
stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy 
in the pursuit of bubbles, that glittered in their eyes and 
danced before them ; but often, when they thought them- 
selves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and 
down they sunk. 

In this confusion of objects, I observed some with cime- 
ters in their hands, and others with lancets, who ran to and 
fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors 
which did not seem to lie in their way, and which the}'' 
might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon 
them. 

The Genius, seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy 
prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. " Take 
thine eyes off the bridge," said he, " and tell me if thou yet 
seest any thing thou dost not comprehend." Upon looking 
up, " What mean," said I, " those great flights of birds that 
are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon 
it from time to time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cor- 
morants, and, among many other feathered creatures, several 
little winged boys, that perch, in great numbers, upon the 
middle arches." 

" These," said the Genius, " are Envy, Avarice, Supersti- 
tion, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that 
infest human life." I here fetched a deep sigh. "Alas !" 
said I, " man was made in vain ! how is he given away to 
misery and mortality ! tortured in life, and swallowed up in 
death !" The Genius, being moved with compassion towards 
me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. "Look no 
more," said he, " on man, in the first stage of his existence, 
in his setting out for eternity ; but cast thine eye on that 
thick mist, into which the tide bears the several generations 
of mortals that fall into it." 

I directed my sight as I was ordered, and — whether or no 
the good Genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, 



NATIONAL READER. 69 

or dissipated part of the mist, that was before too thick for 
the eye to penetrate — I saw the valley opening at the farther 
end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a 
huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and 
dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on 
one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it : 
but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with 
innumerable islands,"^ that were covered with fruits and 
flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas, 
that ran among them. 

I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with gar- 
lands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down 
by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers ; and 
could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling 
waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness 
grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I 
wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to 
those happy seats ; but the Genius told me, there was no 
passage to them, except through the gates of death, that I 
saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 

" The islands," said he, " that lie so fresh and green be- 
fore thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean ap- 
pears spotted, as far as thou canst see, are more in number 
than the sands on the sea shore. There are myriads of 
islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching 
farther than thine eye, or even thine imagination, can ex- 
tend itself. These are the mansions of good men after 
death, who, according to the degrees and kinds of virtuet in 
which they excelled, are distributed among these several 
islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and 
degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who 
are settled in them. Every island is a paradise accommo- 
dated to its respective inhabitants. 

" Are not these, Mirza, habitations worth contending for? 
Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of 
earning such a reward ? Is death to be feared, that will 
convey thee to so happy an existence ? Think not man was 
made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him." 
I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on those happy islands. 
At length, said I, " Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets 
that lie under those dark clouds, that cover the ocean on 
the other side of the rock of adamant." 

* Pron. i'-lands. t Pron. ver'-tshu. 



70 NATIONAL READER. 

The Genius making me no answer, I turned about to 
address myself to him a second time, but I found that he 
had left me. I then turned again to the vision which I had 
been so long contemplating ; but, instead of the rolling tide, 
the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but 
the long, hollow valley of Bagdat, Avitli oxen, sheep and 
camels grazing upon the sides of it. 



LESSON XXXV. 

. The World we have not seen. — Anonymous. 

There is a world we have not seen, 
That time shall never dare destroy, 

Where mortal footstep hath not been, 
Nor ear hath caught its sounds of joy. 

There is a region, lovelier far 

Than sages tell, or poets sing, 
Brighter than summer beauties are, 

And softer than the tints of spring. 

There is a world, — and how blest ! — , 
Fairer than prophets ever told ; 

And never did an angel guest 
One half its blessedness unfold. 

It is all holy and serene, 

The land of glory and repose ; 
And there, to dim the radiant scene, 

The tear of sorrow never flows. 

It is not fanned by summer gale ; 

'Tis not refreshed by vernal showers ; 
It never needs the moon-beam pale. 

For there are known no evening hours. 

No : for this world is ever bright 
With a pure radiance all its own ; 

The streams of uncreated light 

Flow round it from the Eternal Throne. 



NATIONAL READER. 71 

There forms, that mortals may not see, 

Too glorious for the eye to trace, 
And clad in peerless majesty, 

Move with unutterable grace. 

In vain the philosophic eye 

May seek to view the fair abode. 
Or find it in the curtained sky : — 

It is THE DWELLING-PLACE OF GoD. 



LESSON XXXVI. 

The Better Land. — Mrs. Hem'ans. 

" I HEAR thee speak of the better land ; 
Thou call'st its children a happy band ; 
Mother ! oh, where is that radiant shore ? — 
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ?— 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs ?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child !" 

" Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise. 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? — 
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze. 
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings. 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child !" 

" Is it far awa^T", in some region old, 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold. 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine. 
And the pearl gleams forth from the cor'al strand ? 
Is it there, sweet mother ! that better land ?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child I 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep sounds of joy; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair ; 
Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 



72 NATIONAL READER. 

Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ; 
Beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb ; 

— It is there, it is there, my child !" 



LESSON XXXVII. 

The Widow and her Son. — C. Edwards. 

"My life, my joy, my food, my all the world ! 
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure !" 

Consumption is a siren. She can give a charm even to 
deformity. In my school boy days, there lived an aged 
widow near the church-yard. She had an only child. I 
have often observed, that the delicate, and the weak, receive 
more than a common share of affection from a mother. 
Such a feeling was shown by this widow towards her sickly 
and unshapely boy. 

There are faces and forms which, once seen, are impress- 
ed upon our brain ; and they will come again, and again, 
upon the tablet of our memory in the quiet night, and even 
flit around us in our day walks. Many years have gone by 
since I first saw this boy ; but his delicate form, his quiet 
manner, and his gentle and virtuous conduct, are often 
before me. 

I shall never forget, — in the sauciness of youth, and fan- 
cying it would give importance to my bluff outside, — swear' 
ing in his presence. The boy was sitting in a high-backed 
easy chair, reading his Bible. He turned round, as if a 
signal for dying had sounded in his ear, and fixed upon me 
his clear gray eye — that look ! it made my little heart almost 
choke me : — I gave some foolish excuse for getting out of 
the cottage ; and, as I met a playmate on the road, who 
jeered me for my blank countenance, I rushed past him, hid 
myself in an adjoining cornfield, and cried bitterly. 

I tried to conciliate the widow's son, and show my sorrow 
for having so far forgotten the innocence of boyhood, as to 
have had my Maker's name sounded in an unhallowed man- 
ner from my lips : but I could not reconcile him. My spring 
flowers he accepted; but, when my back was turned, he 
flung them away. The toys and books I offered to him 
were put aside for his Bible. His only occupations were, 
the feeding of a favourite hen, which would come to his 



NATIONAL READER. 73 

cliair and look up for the crumbs lie would let fall, with a 
noiseless action, from his thin fingers, watching the pendu- 
lum and hands of the wooden clock, and reading. 

Although I could not, at that time, fully appreciate the 
beauty of a mother's love, still I venerated the widow for 
the unobtrusive, but intense, attention she displayed to her 
son. I never entered her dwelling without seeing her en- 
gaged in kind offices towards him. If the sunbeam came 
through the leaves of the geraniums, placed in the window, 
with too strong a glare, she moved the high-backed chair 
with as much care as if she had been putting aside a crystal 
temple. When he slept, she festooned her silk handker- 
chief around his place of rest. She placed the earliest vio- 
lets upon her mantel-piece for him to look at ; and the 
roughness of her own meal, and the delicacy of the child's, 
sufficiently displayed her sacrifices. Easy and satisfied, the 
widow moved about. I never saw her but once unhappy. 
She was then walking thoughtfully in her garden. I beheld 
a tear. I did not dare to intrude upon her grief, and ask 
her the cause of it ; but I found the reason in her cottage : 
her boy had been spitting blood. 

I have often envied him these endearments ; for I was 
away from a parent who humoured me even when I was stub- 
born and unkind. My poor mother is in her grave. I have 
often regretted having been her pet, her favourite : for the 
coldness of the world makes me wretched; and, perhaps, 
if I had not drunk at the very spring of a mother's affection, 
I might have let scorn and con'tumely pass by me as the idle 
wind. Yet I have, afterwards, asked myself what I, a 
thoughtless though not heartless boy, should have come to, 
if I had not had such a comforter : — I have asked myself 
this, felt satisfied and grateful, and wished that her spirit 
might Avatch around a child, who often met her kindness 
with passion, and received her gifts as if he expected ho- 
mage from her. 

Every body experiences how quickly school years pass 
away ; and many persons regret their flight. As for myself, 
I do not wish for the return of boyhood's days. I cannot 
forget the harshness of my master. I cannot but know, that, 
if he had studied my character, and tempered me as the hot 
iron is made pliable, I should have been a different and a 
better being. I still remember the tyr'anny of older spirits. 
School may have its pleasures ; but the sorrows of a think- 
ing boy are like the griefs of a fallen angel. 
7 



74 NATIONAL READER. 

My father's residence was not situated in the village 
where I was educated; so that, when I left school, I left 
its scenes also. 

After several years had passed away, accident took me 
again to the well-kno\\qi place. The stable, into which I 
led my horse, was dear to me ; for I had often listened to 
the echo that danced within it, when the bells Avere ringing. 
The face of the landlord was strange ; but I could not for- 
get the in-kneed, red-whiskered hostler"^ : he had given me 
a hearty thrashing as a return for a hearty jest. 

I had reserved a broad piece of silver for the old widow. 
But I first ran towards the river, and walked upon the mill- 
bank. I Avas surprised at the apparent narrowness of the 
stream ; and, although the willows still fringed the margin, 
and appeared to stoop in homage to the water lilies, yet they 
were diminutive ! Every thing was but a miniature of the 
picture within my mind. It proved to me that my faculties 
had grown with my growth, and strengthened with my 
strength. 

With something like disappointment, I left the river side, 
and strolled towards the church. My hand was in my 
pocket, grasping the broad piece of silver. I imagined to 
myself the kind look of recognition I should receive ; I de- 
termined on the Avay in which I should press the money 
into the widow's hand. But I felt my nerves lightly trem- 
ble as I thought on the look her son had given, and again 
might give me. 

Ah, there is the cottage ! but the honey-suckle is older, 
and it has lost many of its branches ! 

The door was closed. A pet lamb was fastened to a 
loose cord under the window ; and its melancholy bleating 
was the only sound that disturbed the silence. In former 
years, I used, at once, to pull the string which assisted the 
wooden latch ; but now, I deliberately knocked. A strange 
female form, with a child in her arms, opened the door. I 
asked for my old acquaintance. " Alas ! poor Alice is in 
her coffin : look, sir, where the shadow of the spire ends : 
that is her grave." I relaxed my grasp of my money. " And 
her deformed boy?" "He too, sir, is there !" I drew my 
hand from my pocket. 

It was a hard task for me to thank the w^oman, but I did 
so. 1 moved to the place where the mother and the child 
were buried. I stood for some minutes, in silence, beside 
the mound of grass. I thought of the consumptive lad, 

* Pron. os'ler. 



NATIONAL READER. 75 

and, as I did so, the lamb at the cottage window gave its 
anxious bleat. And then all the affectionate attentions of 
my oivn mother arose on my soul ; while my lips trembled 
out — " Mother ! dear mother ! would that I were as is the 
widow's son ! would that I were sleeping in thy grave ! I 
loved thee, mother ! but I would not have thee living now, 
to view the worldly sorrows of thy ungrateful boy! My 
first step towards vice was the oath which the deformed 
child heard me utter. 

" I have often wished my means were equal to my heart. 
Circumstances, alone, have unmade me. — And you, who 
rest here as quietly as you lived, shall receive the homage 
of the unworthy. I will protect this hillock from the steps 
of the heedless wanderer, and from the trampling of the 
village herd. I will raise up a tabernacle to purity and 
love. I will do it in secret ; and I look not to be rewarded 
openly." 



LESSON XXXVIII. , 

The Little Man in Black. — W. Irving. 

The following story has been handed doAvn by family 
tradition for more than a century. It is one on which my 
cousin Christopher dwells, with more than his usual prolix- 
ity ; and I have thought it worthy of being laid before my 
readers. /' 

Soon after iny grandfather, Mr. Lemuel Cockloft, had 
quietly settled himself at the Hall, and just about the time 
that the gossips of the neighbourhood, tired of prying into his 
affairs, were anxious for some new tea-table topic, the busy 
community of our little village was thrown into a grand tur- 
moil of curiosity and conjecture, — a situation very common 
to little gossiping villages, — ^by the sudden and unaccount- 
able appearance of a mysterious individual. 

The object of this solicitude was a little, black-looking 
man, of a foreign aspect, who took possession of an old 
building, which, having long had the reputation of being 
haunted,^ was in a state of ruinous desolation, and an object 
of fear to all true believers in ghosts. 

He usually wore a high sugar-loaf hat, with a narrow 

* Haunt, pronounced to rhyme with aunt, not with want. 



76 NATIONAL READER. 

brim, and a little black cloak, which, short as he was, 
scarcely reached below his knees. He sought no intimacy 
or acquaintance with any one ; appeared to take no interest 
in the pleasures or the little broils of the village ; nor ever 
talked, except sometimes to himself in an outlandish tongue. 

He commonly carried a large book, covered with sheep- 
skin, under his arm; appeared always to be lost in medi- 
tation ; and was often met by the peasantry, sometimes 
watching the dawn of day, sometimes, at noon, seated under 
a tree, poring over his volume, and sometimes, at evening, 
gazing, with a look of sober tranquillity, at the sun, as it 
gradually sunk below the horizon. 

The good people of the vicinity beheld something prodi- 
giously singular in all this. A profound mystery seemed to 
hang about the stranger, which, with all their sagacity, they 
could not penetrate ; and, in the excess of worldly charity, 
they pronounced it a sure sign " that he was no better than 
he should be :" — a phrase innocent enough in itself, but 
which, as applied in common, signifies nearly every thing 
that is bad. 

The young people thought him a gloomy mis'anthrope, 
because he never joined in their sports : — the old men 
thought still more hardly of him, because he followed no 
trade, nor ever seemed ambitious of earning a farthing : — 
and, as to the old gossips, baffled by the inflexible tacitur- 
nity of the stranger, they unanimously decreed, that a man, 
who could not, or would not talk, was no better than a dumb 
beast. 

The little man in black, careless of their opinions, seemed 
resolved to maintain the liberty of keeping his own secret ; 
and the consequence was, that, in a little while, the whole 
village was in an uproar : for, in little communities of this 
description, the members have always the privilege of being 
thoroughly versed, and even of meddling, in all the affairs 
of each other. 

A confidential conference was held, one Sunday morning, 
after sermon, at the door of the village church, and the 
character of the unknown fully investigated. The school- 
master gave, as his opinion, that he was the wandering 
Jew : — the sexton was certain that he must be a free-mason, 
from his silence : — a third maintained, with great obstinacy, 
that he was a High German doctor, and that the book, which 
he carried about with him, contained the secrets of the 
black art : — ^but the most prevailing opinion seemed to be. 



NATIONAL READER. 77 

that he was a witch, — a race of beings at that time abound- 
ing in those parts, — and a sagacious old matron proposed to 
ascertain the fact, by sousing him into a kettle of hot water. 

Suspicion, when once afloat, goes with wind and tide, 
and soon becomes certainty. Many a stormy night was the 
little man in black seen, by the flashes of lightning, frisking 
and curvet'ing in the air upon a broomstick ; and it was 
always observable that, at those times, the storm did more 
mischief than at any other. The old lady, in particular, 
who suggested the humane ordeal of the boiling kettle, lost, 
on one of these occasions, a fine brindle cow ; which acci- 
dent was entirely ascribed to the vengeance of the little man 
in black. 

If ever a mischievous hireling rode his master's favourite 
horse to a distant frolic, and the animal was observed to be 
lame and jaded in the morning, the little man in black was 
sure to be at the bottom of the aflair : nor could a high wind 
howl through the village at night, but the old women shrug- 
ged up their shoulders, and observed, that the little man in 
black was in his tantrums. 

In short, he became the bugbear of every house ; and was 
as effectual in frightening little children into obedience and 
hysterics as the redoubtable Raw-heud-and-bloody-bones him- 
self; nor could a house-wife "^ of the village sleep in peace, 
except under the guardianship of a horse-shoe nailed to 
the door. 

The object of these direful suspicions remained, for some 
time, totally ignorant of the wonderful quandary he had 
occasioned : but he was soon doomed to feel its effects. An 
individual, who is once so unfortunate as to incur the odium 
of a village, is, in a great measure, outlawed and proscribed, 
and becomes a mark for injury and insult ; particularly if 
he has not the power, or the disposition, to recriminate. 
The little venomous passions, which, in the great world, are 
dissipated and weakened by being widely diffused, act, in 
the narrow limits of a country town, with collected vigour, 
and become rancorous, in proportion as they are confined in 
their sphere of action. 

The little man in black experienced the truth of this. 

Every mischievous urchin, returning from school, had full 

liberty to break his windows : and this was considered as a 

most daring exploit' ; for, in such awe did they stand of him, 

that the most adventurous school-boy was never seen to 

* Pron. huz'-wiff. 
7^ 



78 NATIONAL READER. 

approach his threshold ; and, at night, would prefer going 
round by the by-roads, where a traveller had been murdered 
by the Indians, rather than pass by the door of his forlorn 
habitation. 

The only living creature, that seemed to have any care or 
affection for this deserted being, was an old turnspit, — the 
companion of his lonely mansion, and his solitary wander- 
ings, — the sharer of his scanty meal, and, — sorry am I to 
say it, — the sharer of his persecutions. The turnspit, like 
his master, was peaceable and inoffensive, — never knoAvn to 
bark at a horse, to growl at a traveller, or to quarrel with the 
dogs of the neighbourhood. 

He followed close at his master's heels, when he went out, 
and, when he returned, stretched himself in the sunbeams, 
at the door ; demeaning himself, in all things, like a civil 
and well disposed turnspit. But, notwithstanding his ex'em- 
plary deportment, he fell, likewise, under the ill report of the 
village, as being the familiar'^ of the little man in black, and 
the evil spirit that presided at his incantations. The old 
hovel was considered as the scene of their unhallowed rites, 
and its harmless tenants regarded with a detestationt which 
their inoffensive conduct never merited. 

Though pelted and jeered at by the brats of the village, 
and frequently abused by their parents, the little man in 
black never turned to rebuke them ; and his faithful dog, 
when wantonly assaulted, looked up wistfully in his master's 
face, and there learned a lesson of patience and forbearance. 



LESSON XXXIX. 

The same, concluded. 



The movements of this inscrutable being had long been 
the subject of speculation at Cockloft Hall ; for its inmates 
were full as much given to wondering as their descendants. 
The patience with which he bore his persecutions, particu- 
larly surprised them ; for patience is a virtue but little 
known in the Cockloft family. 

My grandmother, who, it appears, was rather superstitious, 

saw in this humility nothing but the gloomy sullenness of a 

wizard, who restrained himself for the present, in hopes of 

'^ 
* A demon, supposed to attend at call : — Johnson, t Pron. det-tes-ta'-shun. 



NATIONAL READER. 79 

i 
midnight vengeance. The parson of the village, who was 
a man of some reading, pronounced it the stubborn insensi- 
bility of a stoic philosopher. My grandfather, who, worthy 
soul, seldom wandered abroad in search of „ conclusions, took 
data from his own excellent heart, and regarded it as the 
humble forgiveness of a Christian. 

But, however different were their opinions as to the cha- 
racter of the stranger, they agreed in one particular, namely, 
in never intruding upon his solitude ; and my grandmother, 
who was, at that time, nursing my mother, never left the 
room without wisely putting the large family Bible into the 
cradle, — a sure talisman, in her opinion, against witchcraft 
and nec'romancy. 

One stormy winter night, when a bleak north-east wind' 
moaned about the cottages, and roared around the village 
steeple, my grandfather was returning from club, preceded 
by a servant with a lantern. Just as he arrived opposite 
the desolate abode of the little man in black, he was arrested 
by the piteous howling of a dog, which, heard in the pauses 
of the storm, was exquisitely mournful ; and he fancied, 
now and then, that he caught the low and broken groans of 
some one in distress. 

He stopped for some minutes, hesitating between the be- 
nevolence of his heart, and a sensation of genuine delicacy, 
which, in spite of his eccentricity, he fully possessed, and 
which forbade"^ him to pry into the concerns of his neigh- 
bours. Perhaps, too, this hesitation might have been 
strengthened by a little taint of superstition ; for, surely, if 
the unknown had been addicted to witchcraft, this was a 
most propitious night for his vaga'ries. 

At length the old gentleman's philanthropy predominated : 

he approached the hovel, and, pushing open the door, — for 

poverty has no occasion for locks and keys, — ^beheld, by the 

light of the lantern, a scene that smote his generous heart to 

^the core. 

On a miserable bed, with a pallid and emaciated visage, 
and hollow eyes, — in a room destitute of every convenience, 
without fire to warm, or friend to console him, — lay this 
helpless mortal, who had been so long the terror and wonder 
of the village. His dog was crouching on the scanty cover- 
let, and shivering with cold. My grandfather stepped softly 
and hesitatingly to the bed-side, and accosted the forlorn 
sufferer in his usual accents of kindness. 

* Pron. forbad. 



80 NATIONAL READER. 

The little man in black seemed recalled, by the tones of 
compassion, from the lethargy into which he had fallen ; for, 
though his heart was almost frozen, there was yet one chord 
that answered to the call of the good old man who bent over 
him : the tones of sympathy, so novel to his ear, called back 
his wandering senses, and acted like a restorative to his soli- 
tary feelings. 

He raised his eyes, but they were vacant and haggard : — 
he put forth his hand, but it was cold : — he essayed to 
speak, but the sound died away in his throat : — he pointed 
to his mouth, with an expression of dreadful meaning, and, 
sad to relate ! my grandfather understood, that the harmless 
stranger, deserted by society, was perishing with hunger. 
With the quick impulse of humanity, he despatched the 
servant to the Hall for refreshment. A little warm nourish- 
ment renovated him for a short time, but not long : — it was 
evident that his pilgrimage was drawing to a close, and he 
was about entering that peaceful asylum, Avhere " the wicked 
cease from troubling." 

His tale of misery was short, and quickly told. Infirmi- 
ties had stolen upon him, heightened by the rigours of the 
season : — he had taken to his bed, without strength to rise 
and ask for assistance : — " And if I had," said he, in a tone 
of bitter despondency, " to whom should I have applied ? I 
have no friend, that I know of, in the world ! The villagers 
avoid me as something loathsome and dangerous ; and here, 
in the midst of Christians, should I have perished without a 
fellow being to soothe the last moments of existence, and 
close my dying eyes, had not the bowlings of my faithful 
dog excited your attention." 

He seemed deeply sensible of the kindness of my grand- 
father ; and, at one time, as he looked up into his old bene- 
factor's face, a solitary tear was observed to steal adown the 
parched furrows of his cheek. Poor outcast ! It was the 
last tear he shed ; — ^but, I warrant, it was not the first, by 
millions. 

My grandfather watched him all night. Towards morn- 
ing he gradually declined ; and, as the rising sun gleamed 
through the window, he begged to be raised in his bed, that 
he might look at it for the last time. He contem'plated it a 
moment with a kind of religious enthusiasm, and his lips 
moved as if engaged in prayer. The strange conjectures 
concerning him rushed on my grandfather's mind : — " He is 
an idolater," thought he, " and is worshipping the sun." 



NATIONAL READER. 81 

He listened a moment, and blushed at his own uncharitable 
suspicion. He was only engaged in the pious devotions of 
a Christian. 

His simple or'ison being finished, the little man in black 
withdrew his eyes from the east, and, taking my grandfather 
by the hand, and making a motion with the other towards 
the sun, — '• I love to contemplate it," said he ; " it is an em- 
blem of the universal benevolence of a true Christian ; — and 
it is the most glorious work of Him who is philanthro- 
py itself." My grandfather blushed still deeper at his 
ungenerous surmises. He had pitied the stranger at first ; 
but now he revered him. He turned once more to regard 
him, but his countenance had undergone a change : — the 
holy enthusiasm, that had lighted up each feature, had given 
place to an expression of mysterious import : — a gleam of 
grandeur seemed to steal across his Gothic visage, and he 
appeared full of some mighty secret- which he hesitated to 
impart. 

He raised his tattered night-cap, which had sunk almost 
over his eyes ; and, waving his withered hand with a slow 
and feeble expression of dignity — " In me," said he, with 
laconic solemnity, — " In me you behold the last descendant 
of the renowned Linkum Fidelius !" — My grandfather gazed 
at him with reverence ; for, though he had never heard of 
the illustrious personage, thus pompously announced, yet 
there was a certain black-letter dignity in the name, that 
peculiarly struck his fancy, and commanded his respect. 

" You have been kind to me," — continued the little man 
in black, after a momentary pause, — " and richly will I re- 
quite your kindness by making you heir of my treasures ! 
In yonder large deal box are the volumes of my illustrious 
ancestor, of which I alone am the fortunate possessor. In- 
herit them : — ponder over them, and be wise." 

He grew faint with the exertion he had made, and sunk 
back, almost breathless, on his pillow. His hand, which, 
inspired with the importance of the subject, he had raised to 
my grandfather's arm, slipped from his hold, and fell over the 
side of the bed ; and his faithful dog licked it, as if anxious 
to soothe the last moments of his master, and testify his 
gratitude to the hand that had so often cherished him. 

The untaught caresses of the faithful animal were not 
lost upon his dying master. He raised his languid eyes, — 
turned them on the dog, — then on my grandfather, — and, hav- 
ing given this silent recommendation, — closed them forever. 



^ ^NATIONAL READER. 

The remains of the little man in black, notwithstanding 
the objections of many pious people, were decently interred 
in the church-yard of the village : — and his spirit, harmless 
as the body it once animated, has never been known to 
molest a living being. My grandfather complied, as far as 
possible, with his request. He conveyed the volumes of 
Linkum Fidelius to his library : he pondered over them 
frequently : — ^but whether he grew wiser, the tradition does 
not mention. 

This much is certain, that his kindness to the poor de- 
scendant of Fidelius was amply rewarded by the approbation 
of his own heart, and the devoted attachment of the old 
turnspit ; who, transferring his affection from his deceased 
master to his benefactor, became his constant attendant, and 
was father to a long line of runty curs, that still flourish in 
the family. And thus was the Cockloft library first enriched 
by the valuable folios of the sage Linkum Fidelius. 



LESSON XL. 



Danger of being a good Singer, — London Literary 

Chronicle. 

One of the pithy remarks in Lacon, though I cannot 
remember the precise words, amounts to this ; that any man, 
who is an excellent amateur' singer, and reaches the age of 
thirty, without, in some way or other, feeling the ruinous 
effects of it, is an extraordinary"^ man. " True it is, and 
pity 'tis 'tis true," that a quality so pleasing, and one that 
might be so innocent and so amiable, is often, through the 
weakness of " poor human nature," converted into a bane, — a 
very pest, — and occasions it to be remarked, when this mise- 
rable result occurs, that a man had better croak like a frog, 
than be a good singer. 

That the ruin too frequently occasioned by a man's being 
a good vocalist, arises from want of resolution, and from his 
inability to say ?zo, when invited to a feast ; or, when there, 
to use the same denying monosyllable, when pressed to take 
another glass, and then — ^what then ? — why, another ; can- 
not be denied ; and that such is the manifest and frequent 
consequence, he who runs may read ! 

A few mornings ago, I w^as accidentally reading the Morn- 

* Pron. ex-tror'-de-ner-e. 



NATIONAL READER. 83 

ing Herald, in the committee-room, when my attention was 
roused by a sort of debate at the table, between the presid- 
ing overseer, the master of the workhouse, and a pauper, 
who wanted permission to go out for a hol'yday. On raising 
my head, I discovered, in the pauper, a young man, rather 
above thirty, to describe whose carbuncled face would be 
impossible, and whose emaciated appearance bespoke pre- 
mature decay, and the grossest intemperance ; whilst the 
faculties of his mind were evidently shown, by his conver- 
sation, to be as impaired as his body. 

To my surprise, I discovered, in this shadow of a man, 
one who had been, but a very few years prior to this, in a 
good business, from which his father had retired with a com- 
fortable fortune, and who is still living reputably in one of 
the villages adjoining the metropolis. At the time I speak 
of, I frequently met this young man at the Freemasons', the 
Crown and Anchor, and other taverns, where public dinners 
are held, and where he was always hailed with rapture, as a 
second Braham ; and he really sung very delightfully ; but 
he could not stand the flattery attendant on it, and the hard 
drinking, which he thought necessary, poor fellow, but 
which is well known to be a singer's greatest enemy. 

He frequently attended two or three dinners in one day ; 
and, in short, he altogether verified the old proverb of " a 
short life and a merry one ;" and, descending in the scale 
of society, step by step, he exchanged his elegant tavern 
dining for evening clubs and free-and-easys, till, ejected 
from the public-house parlour, he sunk into a frequent'er of 
common tap-rooms, and an associater with the vilest of the 
vile, — he cared not whom, — and, provided he could get liquor 
to drink, he cared not what. 

His business had been entirely lost, long before this utter 
degradation ; though his friends had, from time to time, with 
great sacrifices, upheld him ; and he was, at the period 
spoken of, a pensioner on their bounty, and on the occa- 
sional treats still procured by his failing voice ; till, at length, 
finding he was attacked by a grim disease, and having 
become so lost to all decency of feeling as to make it impos- 
sible for his friends to take him into their houses, the parish 
workhouse was his only resource, where he is now paid for 
by those friends ; an older man in constitution than his 
father, though still, by age, he ought to be numbered with 
our youths. 

After he had left the room, the overseer told me that, 



84 NATIONAL READER. 

although he could not find it in his heart to refuse this 
lost heing his request, yet he knew that he would only go 
begging round among his old friends and acquaintances, the 
consequence of which would, in all probability, be several 
days of intoxication before his return, when he would again 
come into the workhouse, in the same sickly state, from 
which, by good care and attention, he had been greatly re- 
lieved. 

Let this communication, every syllable of which is true, 
sink deeply into the hearts of all my young male readers, 
who are just entering into life, and who may happen to have 
tolerable voices. Singing is an elegant, but, as I have shown, 
a dangerous accomplishment. Far be it from me to assert, 
that there are not many good singers, both public and pri- 
vate, who are prudent men. I have only sketched, feebly 
indeed, and slightly, what has been the result of musical 
talent of this sort, and what, therefore, may be the result 
again ; and I have good reason to know, that a fate, similar 
to the one I have related, has befallen many a man besides 
him of whom I have been writing, whose youthful pride 
has been to be called a good singer. 



LESSON XLL 

The Country Clergyman, — Goldsmith. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear,- 
And passing rich, with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place : 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power. 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour : 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, — 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 

His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast : 



I] 



NATIONAL READER. B$ 

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed : 
The broken soldier, kindly bade"^ to stay, 
Satet by his fire and talked the night away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their wo ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side : 
But, in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all : 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries. 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last, faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway. 
And fools, who came to scoff, returned to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
Even children followed with endearing wile. 
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile ; 
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed. 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given. 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

* Pron. bad. t Pron. sat. 

8 



i 



( 



86 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XLII. 

Parody^ on the preceding. — Blackwood's Magazine. 

Near where yon brook flows babbling through the dell, 
From whose green bank those upland meadows swell, 
See where the rector's splendid mansion stands, 
Embosomed deep in new-enclosed lands, — 
Lands wrested from the indigent and poor, 
Because, forsooth, he holds the village cure.t 
A man is he whom all his neighbours fear, 
Litigious, haughty, greedy, and severe ; 
And starving, with a thousand pounds a year. 

'Midst crowds and sports he passed his youthful prime ; 
Retirement, had, with him, been deemed a crime : 
When the young blood danced joc'und through his veins, 
'Tis said his sacred stolet received some stains. 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour. 
By friends, or fawning, he lays claim to power : 
For, three fat livings own his goodly sway ; 
Two wretched curates starve upon his pay. 

Celestial Charit}^, that heavenly guest. 
Could ne'er find entrance to his close-locked breast : 
The common vagrants pass his well-known gate 
With terror's hasty step, and looks of hate ; 
For well they know the suffering poor he mocks ; 
Their wants are promised Bridewellll or the stocks. 
The soldier, seamed with honourable scars, 
The sailor, hasting from his country's wars. 
In vain to him may tell their wo-fraught tale ; 
Their wounds, their eloquence, may not prevail : 
Though, by their valour, he in peace remains. 
He never gives a mite, to soothe the wanderers' pains. 

Thus to depress the wretched is his pride ; 
His seeming virtues are to vice allied ; 
Backward to duty, hateful to his ears 
Sound the church bells to summon him to prayers ; 

* Parody ; — A kind of writing, in which the words of an author, or his 
thoughts, are taken, and, by a slight change, adapted to some other subject. 
t Cure ; — The office or employment of a curate or clergyman. 
t Stole ;—A long robe worn by the clergy in England. 
Ij Bridewell ; — A house of correction. 



NATIONAL READER. S7 

And, like the wolf that stole into the fold, 
And slew the sheep, in woolly vestments rolled, 
Still bent on gain, he watcheth night and day, 
To rend and make God's heritage his prey. 

Called to the bed where parting life is laid, 
With what reluctance is the call obeyed ! 
A few brief prayers in haste he mutters o'er, 

For time is precious, and the sick man poor : 

Fancy, even now, depictures to his eye 
Some neighbour's pigs forth-issuing from the sty, 
Whose wicked snouts his new-formed banks uproot, 
Close in the ditch, and lop the hawthorn shoot. 
Full many a luckless hog, in morning round, 
He drives, deep grunting, to the starving pound. 

When in the church, that venerable place, 
A sullen frown o'erspreads his haughty face : 
A preacher's frown conviction should impart. 
But oft his smile should cheer the drooping heart. 
He blunders through the prayers with hasty will, — 
A school-boy would be whipped who read so ill, — 
Then mounts the pulpit with a haughty mien. 
Where more of pride than godliness is seenj 
Some fifteen minutes his discourse will last, 
And thus the business of the week is past. 

The service o'er, no friendly rustics run 
To shake his hand ; his steps the children shun ; 
None for advice or comfort round him press, 
Their joys would charm not, nor their cares distress ; 
To notice them they know he's all too proud ; 
His liveried lackeys spurn the village crowd. 
When for the mourner heaved his breast the sigh ! 
When did compassion trickle from his eye ! 
Careless is he if weal or wo betide, 
If dues and tithes be punctually supplied. 

Such is the man blind chance, not God, hath given 
To be the guide of humble souls to heaven. 
To preach of heaven he'll sometimes condescend, 
But all his views and wishes earthward tend. 
Like a tall guide-post, towering o'er the way, 
Whose lettered arms the traveller's route display, 
Fixed to one spot, it stands upon the dov\'Ti, 
Its hand still pointing to the distant town. 



88 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XLIII. 
Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize. — Goldsmith. 

Good people all, with one accord," 
Lament for Madam Blaize ; 

^^l^o never wanted a good word — 
From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom passed her door, 
And always found her kind ; 

She freely lent to all the poor — 
Who left a pledge behind. 

•^ She strove the neighbourhood to please 

With manner wonderous winning ; 
And never followed wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 
With hoop of monstrous size, 

She never slumbered in her pew — 
But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver. 
By twenty beaux, and more ; 

The king himself has followed her— 
When she has walked before. 

But now, her wealth and finery fled, 
Her hangers-on cut short all, 

Her doctors found, when she was dead— • 
Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament, in sorrow sore ; 

For Kent- Street well may say, 
That, had she lived a twelvemonth more — 

She had not died to-day. 



NATIONAL READER. 89 

LESSON XLIV. 
The sick Man and the Angel. — Gay. 

" Is there no hope ?" the sick man said : 
The silent doctor shook his head ; 
And took his leave with signs of sorrow, 
Despairing of his fee to-morrow. 
When thus the man, with gasping breath : 
" I feel the chilling hand of death. 
Since I must bid the world adieu, 
Let me my former life review. 
I grant my bargains were well made ; 
But all men over-reach in trade. 
'Tis self-defence in each profession : 
Sure self-defence is no transgression. 

" The little portion in my hands, 
By good security on lands. 
Is Avell increased. If, unawares, 
My justice to myself and heirs 
Hath let my debtor rot in jail, 
For want of good sufficient bail ; 
If I, by writ, or bond, or deed, 
Reduced a family to need ; 
My will hath made the world amends : 
My hope on charity depends. 
"Wlien I am numbered with the dead, 
And all my pious gifts are read, 
By heaven and earth ! 'twill then be known, 
My charities were amply shown." 

An Angel came. " Ah ! friend," he cried, 
" No more in flattering hopes confide : 
Can thy good deeds, in former times. 
Outweigh the balance of thy crimes ? 
What widow or what orphan prays 
To crown thy life with length of days ? — 
A pious action's in thy power : 
Embrace with joy the happy hour. 
Now, while you draw the vital air. 
Prove your intention is sincere : 
This instant give a hundred pound : 
Your neighbours want, and you abound." 
8=^ 



90 NATIONAL READER. 

" But why such haste ?" the sick man whines, 
" Who knows as yet what heaven designs ! 
Perhaps I may recover still : 
That sum, and more, are in my w:ill." 

"Fool !" says the Vision, "now 'tis plain, 
Your life, your soul, your heaven, was gain : 
From every side, with all your might. 
You scraped, and scraped beyond your right ; 
And, after death, would fain atone. 
By giving what is not your own." 
" While there is life, there's hope," he cried : 
" Then why such haste ?" so groaned and died. 



LESSON XLV. 

The Voice of the Seasons. — Alison. 

There is, in the revolution of time, a kind of warning 
voice, which summons us to thought and reflection) and 
every season, as it arises, speaks to us of the analogous cha- 
racter which we ought to maintain. From the first open- 
ings of the spring, to the last desolation of winter, the days 
of the year are emblematic of the state and of the duties of 
man ; and, whatever may be the period of our journey, we 
can scarcely look up into the heavens, and mark the path 
of the sun, without feeling either something to animate us 
upon our course, or to reprove us for our delay. 

When the spring appears, when the earth is covered with 
its tender green, and the song of happiness is heard in every 
shade, it is a call to us to religious hope and joy. Over the 
infant year the breath of heaven seems to blow with pater- 
nal softness, and the heart of man willingly partakes in the 
joyfulness of awakened nature. 

When summer reigns, and every element is filled with 
life, and the sun, like a giant, pursues his course through 
the firmament above, it is the season of adoration. We 
see there, as it were, the majesty of the present God; and, 
wherever we direct our eye, the glory of the Lord seems to 
cover the earth as the waters cover the sea. 

When autumn comes, and the annual miracle of nature is 
completed, it is the appropriate season of thankfulness and 
praise. The heart bends with instinctive gratitude before 



NATIONAL READER. 91 

Him, whose benevolence neither slumbers nor sleeps, and 
who, from the throne of glory, yet remembereth the things 
that are in heaven and earth. 

The season of winter has also similar instructions. To 
the thoughtful and the feeling mind it comes not without a 
blessing upon its wings ; and perhaps the noblest lessons of 
religion are to be learned amid its clouds and storms. 



LESSON XLVI. 

Anecdote of Richard JacTcson. — London Quarterly Review. 

During the war of independence in North America, a 
plain farmer, Richard Jackson by name, was apprehended, 
under such circumstances as proved, beyond all doubt, his 
purpose of joining the king's forces ; an intention which he 
was too honest to deny ; accordingly, he was delivered over 
to the high sheriif, and committed to the county jail. The 
prison was in such a state, that he might have found little 
difficulty in escaping ; but he considered himself as in the 
hands of authority, such as it was, and the same principle 
of duty, which led him to take arms, made him equally 
ready to endure the consequences. 

After lying there a few days, he applied to the sheriff for 
leave to go out and work by day, promising that he would 
return regularly at night. His character for simple integrity 
was so well known, that permission was given without hesi- 
tation ; and, for eight months, Jackson went out every day 
to labour, and as duly came back to prison at night. In the 
month of May, the sheriff prepared to conduct him to Spring- 
field, where he was to be tried for high treason. Jackson 
said, this would be a needless trouble and expense; he could 
save the sheriff both, and go just as well by himself. 

His word was once more taken, and he set off alone, to 
present himself for trial and certain condemnation. On the 
way he was overtaken in the woods by Mr. Edwards, a 
member of the council of Massachusetts, which, at that time, 
was the supreme executive of the state. This gentleman 
asked him whither he was going. "To Springfield, sir," 
was his answer, "to be tried for my life." To this casual 
interview Jackson owed his escape, when, having been found 
guilty, and condemned to death, application was made to 
the council for mercy. 



92 NATIONAL READER. 

The evidence and the sentence were stated, and the pre- 
sident put the question, whether a pardon should be granted. 
It was opposed by the first speaker : the case, he said, was 
perfectly clear; the act was unquestionably high treason, 
and the proof complete ; and if mercy was shown in this 
case, he saw no reason why it should not be granted in 
every other. 

Few governments have understood how just and politic it 
is to be merciful : this hard-hearted opinion accorded with 
the temper of the times, and was acquiesced in by one mem- 
ber after another, till it came to Mr. Edwards' turn to speak. 
Instead of delivering his opinion, he simply related the 
whole story of Jackson's singular demeanour, and what had 
passed between them in the woods. 

For the honour of Massachusetts, and of human nature, 
not a man was found to weaken its effect by one of those 
dry, legal remarks, which, like a blast of the desert, wither 
the heart they reach. The council began to hesitate, and, 
when a member ventured to say, that such a man certainly 
ought not to be sent to the gallows, a natural feeling of 
humanity and justice prevailed, and a pardon was imme- 
diately made out. 

Never was a stronger proof exhibited that honesty is wis- 
dom. And yet, it was not the man's honesty, but his child- 
like simplicity, which saved his life ; without that simplicity 
his integrity would have availed him little ; in fact, it was 
his crime ; for it was for doing what, according to the prin- 
ciples wherein he had been born and bred, he believed to be 
his duty, that he was brought to trial and condemned. — 
This it is which renders civil and religious wars so peculiar- 
ly dreadful ; and, in the history of such wars, every incident, 
which serves to reconcile us to humanity, ought carefully to 
be preserved. 



LESSON XL VII. 

Falls of Niagara. — Howison. 

The form of Niagara Falls is that of an irregular semi- 
circle,^ about three quarters of a mile in extent. This is 

* Pron. sem'-e-ser-kl. 



NATIONAL READER. 93 

divided into two distinct cascades by the intervention of 
Goat Island, the extremity of which is perpendicular, and 
in a line with the precipice, over which the water is pro- 
jected. The cataract on the Canada side of the river is 
called the Horseshoe, or Great Fall, from its peculiar form ; 
and that next the United States, the American Fall. 

Three extensive views of the Falls may be obtained from 
three different places. In general, the first opportunity tra- 
vellers have of seeing the cataract is from the high-road, 
which, at one point, lies near the bank of the river. This 
place, however, being considerably above the level of the 
Falls, and a good way beyond them, affords a view that is 
comparatively imperfect and unimposing. 

The Table Rock, from which the Falls of the Niagara may 
be contem'plated in all their grandeur, lies on an exact level 
with the edge of the cataract on the Canada side, and indeed 
forms a part of the precipice, over which the water rushes. 
It derives its name from the circumstance of its projecting 
beyond the cliffs that support it, like the leaf of a table. To 
gain this position, it is necessary to descend a steep bank, 
and to follow a path that winds among shrubbery and trees, 
which entirely conceal from the eye the scene that awaits 
him who traverses it. 

When near the termination of this road, a few steps car- 
ried me beyond all these obstructions, and a magnificent 
amphitheatre of cataracts burst upon my view with appalling 
suddenness and majesty. However, in a moment, the scene 
was concealed from my eyes by a dense cloud of spray, 
which involved me so completely, that I did not dare to ex- 
tricate myself. 

A mingled and thundering rushing filled my ears. I could 
see nothing, except when the wind made a chasm in the 
spray, and then tremendous cataracts seemed to encompass 
me on every side ; while, below, a raging and foamy gulf, of 
undiscoverable extent, lashed the rocks with its hissing 
waves, and swallowed, under a horrible obscurity, the smok- 
ing floods that were precipitated into its bosom. 

At first the sky was obscured by clouds, but, after a few 
minutes, the sun burst forth, and the breeze, subsiding at 
the same time, permitted the spray to ascend perpendicu- 
larly. A host of pyram'idal clouds rose majestically, one 
after another, from the abyss at the bottom of the Fall ; and 
each, when it had ascended a little above the edge of the 
cataract, displayed a beautiful rainbow, which, in a few 



94 NATIONAL READER. 

moments, was gradually transferred into the bosom of the 
cloud that immediately succeeded. 

The spray of the Great Fall had extended itself through 
a wide space directly over me, and, receiving the full influ- 
ence of the sun, exhibited a luminous and magnificent rain- 
bow, which continued to overarch and irradiate the spot on 
which I stood, while I enthusiastically contemplated the 
indescribable scene. 

_ Any person, who has nerve enough, may plunge his hand 
into the water of the Great Fall, after it is projected over the 
precipice, merely by lying down flat, with his face beyond 
the edge of the Table Rock, and stretching out his arm to 
its utmost extent. The experiment is truly a horrible one, 
and such as I would not wish to repeat ; for, even to ttiia 
day, I feel a shuddering and recoiling sensation when I re- 
collect having been in the posture above described. 

The body of water, which composes the middle part of 
the Great Fall, is so immense, that it descends nearly two- 
thirds of the space without being ruffled or broken ; and the 
solemn calmness, with which it rolls over the edge of the 
precipice, is finely contrasted with the perturbed appearance 
it assumes after having reached the gulf below. But the 
water, towards each side of the Fall, is shattered the moment 
it drops over the rock, and loses, as it descends, in a great 
measure, the character of a fluid, being divided into pyram'- 
idal-shaped fragments, the bases of which are turned up- 
wards. 

The surface of the gulf, below the cataract, presents a 
very singular aspect ; seeming, as it were, filled with an im- 
mense quantity of hoar frost, which is agitated by small and 
rapid undulations. The particles of water are dazzlingly 
white, and do not apparently unite together, as might be 
supposed, but seem to continue for a time in a state of 
distinct comminution, and to repel each other with a 
thrilling and shivering motion, which cannot easily be de- 
scribea. ^ ^ ^ ^ 

The road to the bottom of the Fall presents many more 
difficulties than that which leads to the Table Rock. After 
leaving the Table Rock, the traveller must proceed down 
the river nearly half a mile, where he will come to a small 
chasm in the bank, in which there is a spiral staircase en- 
closed, in a wooden building. By descending the stair, 
which is seventy or eighty feet perpendicular height, he 
will find himself under the precipice, on the top of which 



NATIONAL READER. 95 

he formerly walked. A high but sloping bank extends from 
its base to the edge of the river ; and, on the summit of this, 
there is a narrow, slippery path, covered with angular frag- 
ments of rock, which leads to the Great Fall. 

The impending cliffs, hung with a profusion of trees and 
brushwood, overarch this road, and seem to vibrate with the 
thunders of the cataract. In some places they rise abruptly 
to the height of one hundred feet, and display, upon their 
surfaces, fossil shells, and the organic remains of a former 
world ; thus sublimely leading the mind to contem'plate the 
convulsions which nature has undergone since the crea- 
tion. 

As the traveller advances, he is frightfully stunned by the 
appalling noise ; clouds of spray sometimes envelope him, 
and suddenly check his faltering steps ; rattlesnakes start 
from the cavities of the rocks ; and the scream of eagles, 
soaring among the whirlwinds of eddying vapour, which 
obscure the gulf of the cataract, at intervals announces that 
the raging waters have hurled some bewildered animal over 
the precipice. After scrambling among piles of huge rocks 
that obstruct his way, the traveller gains the bottom of the 
Fall, where the soul can be susceptible only of one emo- 
tion, — that of uncontrollable terror. 

It was not until I had, by frequent excursions to the Falls, 
in some measure familiarized my mind with their sublimities, 
that I ventured to explore the recesses of the Great Cata- 
ract. The precipice over which it rolls is very much arched 
underneath, while the impetus, which the water receives in 
its descent, projects it far beyond the cliff, and thus an im- 
mense Gothic arch is formed by the rock and the torrent. 
Tv/ice I entered this cavern, and twice I was obliged to 
retrace my steps, lest I should be suffocated by the blast of 
dense spray that whirled around me : however, the third 
time, I succeeded in advancing about twenty-five yards. 

Here darkness began to encircle me. On one side, the 
black cliff stretched itself into a gigantic arch far above my 
head, and, on the other, the dense and hissing torrent formed 
an impenetrable sheet of foam, Avith which I was drenched 
in a moment. The rocks were so slippery, that I could 
hardly keep my feet, or hold securely by them ; while the 
horrid din made me think the precipices above Avere tumbling 
down in colossal fragments upon my head. # # # ^ 

A little way below the Great Fall, the river is, compara- 
tively speaking, so tranquil, that a ferry-boat plies between. 



96 NATIONAL READER. 

the Canada and American shores, for the convenience of 
travellers. When I first crossed, the heaving flood tossed 
about the skiff with a violence that seemed very alarming ; 
but, as soon as we gained the middle of the river, my atten- 
tion was altogether engaged by the surpassing grandeur of 
the scene before me. 

I was now within the area of a sem'icircle of cataracts 
more than three thousand feet in extent, and floated on the 
surface of a gulf, raging, fathomless, and interminable. Ma- 
jestic cliffs, splendid rainbows, lofty trees, and columns of 
spray, were the gorgeous decorations of this theatre of won^ 
ders ; while a dazzling sun shed refulgent glories upon every 
part of the scene. — Surrounded with clouds of vapour, and 
stunned into a state of confusion and terror by the hideous 
noise, I looked upwards to the height of one hundred and 
fifty feet, and saw vast floods, dense, awful, and stupendous, 
vehemently bursting over the precipice, and rolling down, 
as if the windows of heaven were opened to pour another 
deluge upon the earth. 

Loud sounds, resembling discharges of artillery or volca- 
nic explosions, were now distinguishable amidst the watery 
tumult, and added terrors to the abyss from which they 
issued. The sun, looking majestically through the ascend- 
ing spray, was encircled by a radiant halo ; while fragments 
of rainbows floated on every side, and momentarily vanished, 
only to give place to a succession of others more brilliant. 

Looking backwards, I saw the Niagara River, again be- 
come calm and tranquil, rolling magnificently between the 
towering cliffs, that rose on either side. A gentle breeze 
ruffled the waters, and beautiful birds fluttered around, as if 
to welcome its egress from those clouds, and thunders, and 
rainbows, which were the heralds of its precipitation into the 
abyss of the cataract. 



LESSON XLVm. 

Niag'^dra Falls. '^ 

Tremendous torrent ! for an instant hush 
The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside 

. * From the United States Review and Literary Gazette, translated from 
the Spanish of Josi Mahia Heredia, by T. T. Payne. 



NATIONAL READER. ', 97 

Those wide-involving shadows, that my eyes 

May see the fearful beauty of thy face ! 

I am not all unworthy of thy sight ; 

For, from my very boyhood, have I loved, — 

Shunning the meaner track of common minds, — 

To look on nature in her loftier moods. 

At the fierce rushing of the hurricane, 

At the near bursting of the thunderbolt, 

I have been touched with joy ; and, when the sea, 

Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark, and showed 

Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved 

Its dangers and the wrath of elements. 

But never yet the madness of the sea 

Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now. 

Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves 
Grow broken 'midst the rocks ; thy current then 
Shoots onward, like the irresistible course 
Of destiny. Ah ! terribly they rage — 
The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there ! My brain 
Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze 
Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight 
Vainly would follow, as toward the verge 
Sweeps the wide torrent — waves innumerable 
Meet there and madden — waves innumerable 
Urge on and overtake the waves before, 
And disappear in thunder and in foam. 

They reach — they leap the barrier : the abyss 
Swallows, insatiable, the sinking waves. 
A thousand rainbows arch them, and the woods 
Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock 
Shatters to vapour the descending sheets : 
A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves 
The mighty pyramid of circling mist 
To heaven. The solitary hunter, near, 
Pauses with terror in the forest shades. 

^ •iSyt- -^ -it- 

■Tf' 'TV' 'y'f- ^ 

God of all truth ! in other lands I've seen • 
Lying philosophers, blaspheming men. 
Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw 
Their fellows deep into impiety ; 
And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face 
In earth's majestic solitudes. Even here 
My heart doth open all itself to thee. 
In this immensity of loneliness 
9 



98 ^ ^ NATIONAL READER. 

I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear 
The eternal thunder of the catp.ract brings 
Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear. 

Dread torrent ! that with wonder and with fear 
Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks 
Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself, 
Whence hast thou thy beginning ? Who supplies, 
Age after age, thy unexhausted springs ? 
What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight 
Descends into the deep, the swollen waves 
Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth ? 

The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand, 
Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice 
To thy down-rushing waters ; he hath girt 
Thy terrible forehead AAdth his radiant bow. 
I see thy never-resting waters run. 
And I bethink me how the tide of time 
Sweeps to eternity. So pass of man, — 
Pass, like a noon-day dream, — the blossoming days. 
And he awakes to sorrow. ^ =^ =^ =^ 

Hear, dread Niagara ! my latest voice. 
Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close 
Over the bones of him who sings thee now 
Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse, 
Might be, like thee, immortal. I, meanwhile, 
Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest, 
Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds 
To listen to the echoes of my fame. 



LESSON XLIX. 

Cataract at Terni/^ 



There is a rare union of beauty and grandeur in the 
Falls of Terni. Though the quantity of water be much 
less than the Rhine discharges at Schaffhausen, yet the 
scene is much more imposing, from the greater height of the 
precipice. Niagara alone more completely absorbs the ima- 

* This beautiful description is extracted from a very elegant volume pub- 
lished by Messrs. Constable and Co. in 1823, under the title of "Essays, 
descriptive and moral; or, Scenes in Italy, Switzerland, Holland, and 
France, — ^by an American." 



NATIONAL READER. 99 

gination. The American cataract has an overwhelming 
majesty that belongs to its flood of waters, and which, at 
first, stupifies the faculties of every observer; but Terni 
has an attractive grandeur, which induces you to advance 
deliberately to examine a wonder which nature and art have 
united to produce. 

The rapids in the American river, before you reach the 
edge of the precipice, combined with the distant roar of the 
falls, form a more sublime spectacle than the full view of 
Schaflfhausen, while the prospect from the Table Rock is 
like a glance into eternity. We are obliged to call up the 
force of our minds to keep us from recoiling with dread. 
But at the Cascata del Marmore, as this Italian waterfall is 
styled, the eye rests upon the scene with a pleasing astonish- 
ment, in which there is more of delight than terror. 

It is situated at a few miles distance from Terni. The 
country is beautifully romantic. The road lies, for the most 
part, through fields of olive trees. . At Papinia you are oblig- 
ed to leave the carriage ; and, after descending and cross- 
ing the Nera, and traversing a garden and beautiful line of 
orange trees, you approach the celebrated fall. 

When I saw it, the melting of the snow, and the late 
rains, had swollen the river to nearly double its ordinary 
size. This outlet for the lake Velinus has been most hap- 
pily chosen ; for there are few situations where an artificial 
cataract could be more than beautiful ; but this is exquisite. 
An ancient castle crowns the summit of the lofty mountain 
near you ; and numberless rills run down near the main 
sheet of water. 

But one of the most beautiful objects is occasioned by the 
quantity of foam produced by the fall, which ascends in 
clouds, and, being collected by a projecting ridge, runs down 
in innumerable little cascades ; and, as you cannot, at first, 
divine the cause, the rock seems bursting with the waters 
it holds in its bosom. Besides its other attributes, this fall 
has the best of all charms, — association. It is in Italy ! it 
is a work of the Romans ! these foaming waters wash the 
walls of the Eternal City! 

When the admirer of nature's wonders visits Niagara, he 
travels through extensive forests, just beginning to be the 
residence of civilized men ; and he reflects upon the gene- 
rations of aboriginal inhabitants that vanished from these 
woods during many centuries, as the foam of the cataract 
has risen daily, to fall again, and to be swept away. But 



100 NATIONAL READER. 

they have passed, and have left no memorial : the traveller 
is forced inward for topics of meditation : the scene wants 
drapery : it is too much like the' summit of Chimborazo, — 
of unequalled loftiness, but freezing cold. 

On the contrary, the Fall of Velino has been approached 
in a course from the vale of Clitumnus towards the banks 
of the Tiber ; the ruin of Augustus' bridge, at Narni, is to 
be the picture of to-morrow ; Agrippa's Pantheon is soon to 
be seen. We have not the feeling of sadness, that we are 
at the end of an enjoyment, when we have beheld this won- 
der, — a sentiment which forces itself upon the traveller who 
stands between Erie and Ontario. Such causes give a 
richness and mellowness to the scene, which cannot operate 
upon the American cataract. 

Yet, with all this, if we could select but one of the two 
wonders to be seen, it would not be easy to decide between 
their respective claims. Men of the sterner mould would 
choose the object of unmingled sublimity, and those of 
milder sentiment, that which is the perfection of grandeur 
and beauty. It is not unlike a comparison between Homer 
and Virgil. ^ ^ # # 

The impression which is produced by the sight of a great 
Avaterfall is unique."^ Unlike any of our other feelings, it 
makes the most giddy thoughtful, and offers many points of 
comparison with human life. The landmarks are perma- 
nent as the fields we live in ; the waters fleeting as our 
breath ; the plunge that they make into unknown depths, 
like our descent into the grave ; the rainbow, that sits upon 
the abyss, like our hope of immortality. 

There is the dread of danger, and the curiosity of hope, 
and the impression of the irresistible im'petus by which we 
are borne forward, to make us feel that we too are gliding 
onward, — though sometimes as unconscious as the bubble, — 
to the gulf of eternity, into which the troubled waters of life 
discharge themselves. An immortal and immutable condi- 
tion awaits us, though we sport with what seems to be the 
contingencies of existence. 

How often are we reckless of the star that might guide, 
and the chart that should direct us in our voyage, while we 
are floating onward and onward, with accelerated velocity, 
to the last leap of life ! It is the highest crime a man can 
commit against reason and revelation, if he ventures to 
make that leap in the dark. 

*Pron. u-neek'. 



NATIONAL READER. 101 

LESSON L. 

A West Indian Landscape. — Malte-Brun. 

In order to make our readers better acquainted with this 
country, we shall attempt to describe a morning in the An- 
til'les. For this purpose, let us watch the moment when 
the sun, appearing through a cloudless and serene atmos- 
phere, illumines with his rays the summits of the mountains, 
and gilds the leaves of the plantain and orange trees. The 
plants are spread over with gossamer of fine and transparent 
silk, or gemmed with dew-drops and the vivid hues of in- 
dustrious insects, reflecting unnumbered tints from the rays 
of the sun. 

The aspect of the richly cultivated valleys is different, but 
not less pleasing ; the whole of nature teems with the most 
varied productions. It often happens, after the sun has dis- 
sipated the mist above the crystal expanse of the ocean, that 
the scene is changed by an optical illusion. The spectator 
observes sometimes a sand-bank rising out of the deep, or 
distant canoes in the red clouds, floating in an aerial sea, 
while their shadows, at the same time, are accurately deli- 
neated below them. This phenomenon, to Avhich the French 
have given the name of mirage,^ is not uncommon in equa- 
torial climates. 

Europeans may admire the views in this archipelagot 
during the cool temperature of the morning: the lofty moun- 
tains are adorned with thick foliage ; the hills, from their 
summits to the very borders of the sea, are fringed with 
plants of never-fading verdure ; the mills, and sugar-works 
near them, are obscured by their branches, or buried in 
their shade. 

The appearance of the valleys is remarkable. To form 
even an imperfect idea of it, we must groupt together the 
palm tree, the cocoa nut, and mountain cabbage, with the 
tamarind, the orange, and the waving plumes of the bamboo 
cane. Fields of sugar-cane, the houses of the planters, 
the huts of the negroes, and the distant coast lined with 
ships, add to the beauty of a West Indian landscape. At sun- 
rise, when no breeze ripples the surface of the ocean, it is 
frequently so transparent that one can perceive, as if there 

* Pron. me-razhe. t ar-ke-pel'-a-go. t groop. 

9^ 



102 NATIONAL READER. 

were no intervening medium, the channel of the water, and 
observe the shell-fish scattered on the rocks or reposing on 
the sand. 

A hurricane is generally preceded by an a^vful stillness 
of the elements ; the air becomes close and heavy ; the sun 
is red; and the stars at night seem unusually large. Fre- 
quent changes take place in the thermometer, which rises 
sometimes from eighty to ninety degrees. Darkness extends 
over the earth ; the higher regions gleam with lightning. 

The impending storm is first observed on the sea : foam- 
ing mountains rise suddenly from its clear and motionless 
surface. The wind rages with unrestrained fury : its noise 
may be compared to distant thunder. The rain descends in 
torrents ; shrubs and lofty trees are borne down by the moun- 
tain streams ; the rivers overflow their banks, and submerge 
the plains. 

Terror and consternation seem to pervade the whole of 
animated nature ; land birds are driven into the ocean, and 
those whose element is the sea, seek for refuge in the woods. 
The frighted beasts of the field herd together, or roam in 
vain for a place of shelter. It is not a contest of two oppo- 
site winds, or a roaring ocean that shakes the earth : all the 
elements are thrown into confusion ; the equilibrium of the 
atmosphere seems as if it were destroyed; and nature ap- 
pears to hasten to her ancient chaos. 

Scenes of sudden desolation have often been disclosed in 
these inlands to the morning's sun : uprooted trees, branches 
shivered from their trunks, and the ruins of houses, have 
been strewed^ over the land. The planter is sometimes 
unable to distinguish the place of his former possessions. 
Fertile valleys are changed in a few hours into dreary 
wastes, covered with the carcasses of domestic animals and 
the fowls of heaven. 



LESSON LI. 



hifluences of Natural Scenery favourable to Devotional 
Feelings. — Blackwood's Magazine. 

"Whatever leads our minds habitually to the Author of 
the universe ; whatever minofles the voice of nature with 
the revelation' of the Gospel ; whatever teaches us to see, 

* Pron. strowed. 



NATIONAL READER. 103 

in all the changes of the world, the varied goodness of Him, 
in whom "we live, and move, and have our being," brings 
us nearer to the spirit of the Saviour of mankind. But it is 
not only as encouraging a sincere devotion, that these re- 
flections are favourable to Christianity ; there is something, 
moreover, peculiarly allied to its spirit in such observations 
of external nature. 

When our Saviour prepared himself for his temptation, 
his agony, and death, he retired to the wilderness of Judea, 
to inhale, we may venture to believe, a holier spirit amidst 
its solitary scenes, and to approach to a nearer communion 
with his Father, amidst the sublimest of his Avorks. It is 
with similar feelings, and to worship the same Father, that 
the Christian is permitted to enter the temple of nature ; 
and, by the spirit of his religion, there is a language infused 
into the objects which she presents, unknown to the wor- 
shipper of former times. 

To all, indeed, the same objects appear, the same sun 
shines, the same heavens are open ; but to the Christian 
alone it is permitted to know the Author of these things ; 
to see his spirit "move in the breeze and blossom in the 
spring;" and to read, in the changes which occur in the 
material world, the varied expression of eternal love. It is 
from the influence of Christianity, accordingly, that the key 
has been given to the signs of nature. It was only when 
the spirit of God moved on the face of the deep, that order 
and beauty were seen in the world. 

It is, accordingly, peculiarly well worthy of observation, 
that the beauty of nature., as felt in modern times, seems to 
have been almost unknown to the writers of antiquity. 
They described, occasionally, the scenes in which they 
dwelt ; but, — if we except Virgil, whose gentle mind seems 
to have anticipated, in this instance, the influence of the 
Gospel, — never with any deep feeling of their beauty. Then, 
as now, the citadel of Athens looked upon the evening sun, 
and her temples flamed in his setting beam ; but what Athe- 
nian writer ever described the matchless glories of the 
scene ? Then, as now, the silvery clouds of the jEgean 
Sea rolled round her verdant isles, and sported in the azure 
vault of heaven ; but what Grecian poet has been inspired 
by the sight ? 

The Italian lakes spread their waves beneath a cloudless 
sky, and all that is lovely in nature was gathered around 
them ; yet even Eustace tells us, that a few detached lineg 



/ 



104 NATIONAL READER. 

is all that is left in regard to them by the Eoman poets. The 
Alps themselves, 

" The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their sno^vy scalps, 
And throned eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow," — 

even these, the most glorious objects which the eye of man 
can behold, were regarded by the ancients with sentiments 
only of dismay or horror ; as a barrier from hostile nations, 
or as the dwelling of barbarous tribes. The torch of religion 
had not then lightened the face of nature ; they kneAv not 
the language which she spoke, nor felt that holy spirit, 
which, to the Christian, gives the sublimity of these scenes. 

There is something, therefore, in religious reflections on 
the objects, or the changes of nature, which is peculiarly fit- 
ting in a Christian teacher. No man will impress them on 
his heart without becoming happier and better, — without 
feeling warmer gratitude for the beneficence of nature, and 
deeper thankfulness for the means of knowing the Author of 
this beneficence which revelation has aiTorded. 

"Behold the lilies of the field," says our Saviour; "they 
toil not, neither do they spin : yet, verily I say unto you, that 
even Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of 
these." In these words, we perceive the deep sense which 
he entertained of the beauty even of the minutest of the 
works of nature. If the admiration of external objects is 
not directly made the object of his precepts, it is not, on that 
account, the less allied to the spirit of religion ; it springs 
from the revelation which he has made, and grows with the 
spirit which he inculcates. 

The cultivation of this feeling, we may suppose, is pur- 
posely left to the human mind, that man may be induced to 
follow it from the charms which novelty confers ; and the 
sentiments which it awakens are not expressly enjoined, 
that they may be enjoyed as the spontaneous growth of 
our own imagination. While they seem, however, to spring 
up unbidden in the mind, they are, in fact, produced by 
the spirit of religion ; and those who imagine that they 
are not the fit subject of Christian instruction, are ignorant 
of the secret workings, and finer analogies, of the faith 
which they profess. 



II 



NATIONAL READER. 105 



LESSON LII. ■^- 

Passage of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers through the 

Blue Ridge. — Jefferson. 

The passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge, is, 
perhaps, one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You 
stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes 
up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the 
mountain a hundred miles, to seek a vent. On your left 
approaches the Potomac, in quest of a passage also. In the 
moment of their junction they rush together against the 
mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. 

The first g-lance of this scene hurries our senses into the 
opinion, that this earth has been created in time ; that the 
mountains were formed first ; that the rivers began to flow 
afterwards ; that, in this place particularly, they have been 
dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have 
formed an ocean, which filled the whole valley; that, con- 
tinuing to rise, they have, at length, broken over at this 
spot, and have torn the mountain down, from its summit to 
its base. The piles of rock on each hand, but particularly 
on the Shenandoah, the' evident marks of their disrupture 
and avulsion from their beds, by the most powerful agents 
of nature, corroborate this impression. 

But the distant finishing, which nature has given to the 
picture, is of a very different character. It is a true contrast 
to the fore-ground. That is as placid and delightful, as this 
is wild and tremendous. For the mountain, being cloven 
asunder, presents to your eye, through the cleft, a small 
catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the 
plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and 
tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach and par- 
ticipate of the calm below. 

Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that way, 
too, the road happens actually to lead. You cross the Poto- 
mac above the junction, pass along its side through the base 
of the mountain, for three miles ; its terrible precipices 
hanging in fragments over you. This scene is worth a voy- 
age across the Atlantic. Yet here, as in the neighbourhood 
of the Natural Bridge, are people, who have passed their 
lives within half a dozen miles, and have never been to 



106 NATIONAL READER. 

survey these monuments of a war between rivers and 
mountains, which must have shaken the earth itself to its 
centre. 



LESSON LIII. 

The Blind Boy. — Bloomfield. 

Where's the blind child, so admirably fair, 
With gnileless dimples, and with flaxen hair 
That waves in every breeze ? He's often seen 
Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green, 
With others, matched in spirit and in size, 
Health on their cheeks, and rapture in their eyes. 
That full expanse of voice, to childhood dear, 
Soul of their sports, is duly cherished here ; 
And, hark! that laugh is his, that jovial cry; 
He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by. 
And runs the giddy course with all his might, — 
A very child in every thing but sight. 

With circumscribed, but not abated powers, — ■ 
Play the great object of his infant hours, — 
In many a game he takes a noisy part. 
And shows the native gladness of his heart. 
But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent. 
The new suggestion and the quick assent : 
The grove invites, delight thrills every breast : ; 
To leap the ditch, and seek the downy nest, 
Away they start, — leave balls and hoops behind, 
And one companion leave, — the boy is blind ! 

His fancy paints their distant paths so gay, 
That childish fortitude awhile gives way : 
He feels his dreadful loss : yet short the pain : 
Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again. 
Pondering how best his moments to employ, 
He sings his little songs of nameless joy, 
Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour, 
And plucks, by chance, the white and yellow flower 
Smoothing their stems, while resting on his knees, 
He binds a nosegay which he never sees ; 
Along the homeward path then feels his way, 
Lifting his brow against the shining day. 
And, with a playful rapture round his eyes. 
Presents a sighing parent with the prize. 




NATIONAL READER. 107 

LESSON LIV. 

A Thought on Death. — Mrs. Barbauld.=^ 

When life as opening buds is sweet, 
And golden hopes the spirit greet, 
And youth prepares his joys to meet, 
Alas ! how hard it is to die ! 

When scarce is seized some valued prize, 
And duties press, and tender ties 
Forbid the soul from earth to rise, 

How awful then it is to die ! 

When, one by one, those ties are torn. 
And friend from friend is snatched forlorn. 
And man is left alone to mourn. 

Ah ! then, how easy 'tis to die ! 

When trembling limbs refuse their weight, 
And films, slow-gathering, dim the sight. 
And clouds obscure the mental light, 

'Tis nature's precious boon to die ! 

When faith is strong, and conscience clear, 
And words of peace the spirit cheer. 
And visioned glories half appear, 

'Tis joy, 'tis triumph, then to die ! 



LESSON LV. 

The Old Man's Funeral. — Bryant. 

I SAW an aged man upon his bier : 

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 

A record of the cares of many a year ; — 
Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 

And there was sadness round, and faces bowed. 
And women's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud. 

* Written after she had passed her eightieth year. 



108 NATIONAL READER. 

Then rose another hoary man, and said, 

In faltering accents, to that weeping train, 
" Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead ? 

Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain. 
Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, 
Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast, 

" Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, — 
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, — 

In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, 
Sinks where the islands of refreshment lie, 

And leaves the smile of his departure, spread 
O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain head. 

"Why weep ye then for him, who, having run 

The bound of man's appointed years, at last, 

Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done, 

Serenely to his final rest has passed ? 
While the soft memory of his virtues yet 
Lingers, like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set. 

" His youth was innocent ; his riper age 

Marked with some act of goodness every day ; 

And, watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, 
Faded his late-declining years away. 

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went 
To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. 

" That life was happy ; every day, he gave 
Thanks for the fair existence that was his ; 

For a sick fancy made him not her slave, 
To mock him with her phantom miseries. 

No chronic^ tortures racked his aged limb, 
For luxury and sloth had nourished nonet for him. 

" And I am glad that he has lived thus long ; 

And glad that he has gone to his reward ; 
Nor deem that kindly nature did him wrong. 

Softly to disengage the vital cord. 
When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye 
Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." 

* A chronic disease is one of long duration. + Pron. nun. 



NATIONAL READER. 109 

LESSON LVI. 

Sunday Evening. — Bowring. 

How shall I praise thee, Lord of light ? 

How shall I all thy love declare ? 
The earth is veiled in shades of night; 

But heaven is open to my prayer ; — 
That heaven, so bright with stars and suns ; 

That glorious heaven, which knows no hound ; 
Where the full tide of being runs. 

And life and beauty glow around. 
From thence, — thy seat of light divine, 

Circled by thousand streams of bliss, 
"Which calmly flow and brightly shine, — 

Say, to a world so mean as this. 
Canst thou direct thy pitying eye ? 

How shall my thoughts expression find, 
All lost in thy immensity ! 

How shall I seek, thou infinite Mind, 
Thy holy presence, God sublime ! 

Whose power and wisdom, love and grace, 
Are greater than the round of time. 

And wider than the bounds of space ! 

Gently the shades of night descend ; 

Thy temple, Lord, is calm and still ; 
A thousand lamps of ether blend, 

A thousand fires that temple fill. 
To honour thee. 'Tis bright and fair, 

As if the very heavens, impressed 
With thy pure image smiling there. 

In all their loveliest robes were dressed. 
Yet thou canst turn thy friendly eye 

From that immeasurable throne ; 
Thou, smiling on humanity, 

Dost claim earth's children for thy own, 
And gently, kindly, lead them through 

Life's varied scenes of joy and gloom, 
Till evening's pale and pearly dew 

Tips the green sod that decks their tomb. 
10 



110 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON LVII. 

The Star of Bethlehem. — J. G. Percival. 

Brighter than the rising day^ 

When the sun of glory shines ; 
Brighter than the diamond's ray, 

Sparkling in Golconda's mines ; 
Beaming through the clouds of wo, 

Smiles in Mercy's diadem 
On the guilty world below, 

The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 

When our eyes are dimmed with tears, 

This can light them up again, 
Sweet as music to our ears, 

Faintly warbling o'er the plain. 
Never shines a ray so bright 

From the purest earthly gem ; 
O ! there is no soothing light 

Like the Star of Bethlehem. 

Grief's dark clouds may o'er us roll, 

Every heart may sink in wo. 
Gloomy conscience rack the soul. 

And sorrow's tears in torrents flow ; 
Still, through all these clouds and storms 

Shines this purest heavenly gem, 
With a ray that kindly warms — 

The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 

Wlien we cross the roaring wave 

That rolls on life's remotest shore ; 
When we look into the gi*ave. 

And wander through this world no more ; 
This, the lamp whose genial ray. 

Like some brightly-glowing gem, 
Points to man his darkling way — 

The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 

Let the world be sunk in sorrow, 
Not an eye be charmed or blessed ; 

We can see a fair to-morrow 
Smiling in the rosy west ; 



NATIONAL READER. HI 

This, her beacon, Hope displays ; ' 

For, in Mercy's diadem, 
Shines, with Faith's serenest rays, 

The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 

When this gloomy life is o'er. 

When we smile in bliss above, 
When, on that delightful shore. 

We enjoy the heaven of love, — 
O ! what dazzling light shall shine 

Round salvation's purest gem ! 
! what rays of love divine 

Gild the Star of Bethlehem ! 



LESSON LVIII. 

The Funeral of Maria. — Mackenzie. 

Maria was in her twentieth year. To the beauty of her 
form, and excellence of her natural disposition, a parent, 
equally indulgent and attentive, had done the fullest justice. 
To accomplish her person, and to cultivate her mind, every 
endeavour had been used, and had been attended with that 
success which parental efforts commonly meet with, when 
not prevented by mistaken fondness, or untimely vanity. 

Few young ladies have attracted more admiration ; none 
ever felt it less : with all the charms of beauty, and the 
polish of education, the plainest were not less affected, nor 
the most ignorant less assuming. She died when every 
tongue was eloquent of her virtues, when every hope was 
ripening to reward them. 

It is by such private and domestic distresses, that the 
softer emotions of the heart are most strongly excited. The 
fall of more important personages is commonly distant from 
our observation ; but, even where it happens under our im- 
mediate notice, there is a mixture of other feelings, by which 
our compassion is weakened. 

The eminently great, or extensively useful, leave behind 
them a train of interrupted views, and disappointed expec- 
tations, by which the distress- is complicated beyond the 
simplicity of pity. But the death of one, who, like Maria, 
was to shed the influence of her virtues over the age of a 



112 NATIONAL READRR. 

father, and the childhood of her sisters, presents to us a 
little view of family affliction, which every eye can perceive, 
and every heart can feel. 

On scenes of public sorrow and national regret, we gaze 
as upon those gallery pictures, Avhich strike us with wonder 
III and admiration : domestic calamity is like the miniature of 

m a friend, which we wear in our bosoms, and keep for secret 

' looks and solitary enjoyment. 

The last time I saw Maria, was in the midst of a crowded 
- assembly of the fashionable and the gay, where she fixed 
all eyes by the gracefulness of her motions, and the native 
dignity of her mien ; yet, so tempered was that superiority 
which they conferred with gentleness and modesty, that not 
a murmur was heard, either from the rivalship of beauty, or 
the envy of homeliness. From that scene the transition 
was so violent to the hearse and the pall, the grave and the 
sod, that once or twice my imagination turned rebel to my 
senses : I beheld the objects around me as the painting of 
a dream, and thought of Maria as still living. 

I was soon, however, recalled to the sad reality. The 
fignre of her father bending over the grave of his darling 
child ; the silent, suffering composure, in which his counte- 
nance was fixed ; the tears of his attendants, whose grief 
was light, and capable of tears ; these gave me back the 
truth, and reminded me that I should see her no more. 
There was a flow of sorrow, with which I suffered myself 
to be borne along, with a melancholy kind of indulgence ; 
but when her father dropped the cord, with which he had 
helped to lay his Maria in the earth, its sound on the coffin 
chilled my heart, and horror for a moment took place of 
pity ! 

It was but for a moment. — He looked eagerly into the 
grave ; made one involuntary motion to stop the assistants, 
who were throwing the earth into it ; then, suddenly recol- 
lecting himself, clasped his hands together, threw up his 
eyes to heaven ; and then, first, I saw a few tears drop from 
them. I gave language to all this. It spoke a lesson of 
faith, and piety, and resignation. I went away sorrowful, 
but my sorrow was neither ungentle nor unmanly ; I cast on 
this world a glance rather of pity than of enmity ; and on 
the next, a look of humbleness and hope ! 

Such, I am persuaded, will commonly be the effect of 
scenes like that I have described, on minds neither frigid 
nor unthinking : for, of feelings like these, the gloom of the 



I 



NATIONAL READER. 113 

ascetic is as little susceptible as the levity of the giddy. 
There needs a certain pliancy of mind, which society alone 
can give, — though its vices often destroy it, — to render us 
capable of that gentle melancholy, which makes sorrow 
pleasant, and affliction useful. 

It is not from a melancholy of this sort, that men are 
prompted to the cold, unfruitful virtues of monkish solitude. 
These are often the effects rather of passion secluded than 
repressed, rather of temptation avoided than overcome. The 
crucifix and the rosary, the death's head and the" bones, if 
custom has not made them indifferent, will rather chill desire 
than excite virtue ; but, amidst the warmth of social affection, 
and of social sympathy, the heart will feel the weakness, 
and enjoy the duties, of humanity. 

Perhaps it will be said, that such situations, and such re- 
flections as the foregoing, will only affect minds already too 
tender, and be disregarded by those who need the lessons 
they impart. But this, I apprehend, is to allow too much 
to the force of habit, and the resistance of prejudice. 

I will not pretend to assert, that rooted principles, and 
long-established conduct, are suddenly to be changed by the 
effects of situation, or the eloquence of sentiment ; but, if it 
be granted that such change ever took place, who shall 
determine by what imperceptible motive, or accidental im- 
pression, it was first begun ? And, even if the influence of 
such a call to thought can only smother, in its birth, one 
allurement to evil, or confirm one wavering purpose to vir- 
tue, I shall not have unjustly commended that occasional 
indulgence of pensiveness and sorrow, which will thus be 
rendered not only one of the refinements, but one of the 
improvements of life. 



LESSON LIX. 



A Leaf from " The Life of a LooJcing- Glass." — 
Miss Jane Taylor. 

It being very much the custom, as I am informed, even 
for obscure individuals to furnish some account of them- 
selves, for the .edification of the public, I hope I shall not 
be deemed impertinent for calling your attention to a few 
particulars of my own history., I cannot, indeed, boast of 
10^ 



114 NATIONAL READER. 

any very extraordinary incidents ; but having, during the 
course of a long life, had much leisure and opportunity for 
observation, and being naturally of a reflecting cast, I thought 
it might be in my power to offer some remarks that may not 
be wholly unprofitable to your readers. 

My earliest recollection is that of a carver and gilder's 
workshop, where I remained for many months, leaning with 
my face to the wall ; and, having never known any livelier 
scene, I was very Avell contented with my quiet condition. 
The first object that I remember to have arrested my atten- 
tion, was, what I now believe must have been, a large spider, 
which, after a vast deal of scampering about, began, very 
deliberately, to weave a curious web all over my face. This 
afforded me great amusement, and, not then knowing what 
far lovelier objects were destined to my gaze, I did not resent 
the indignity. 

At length, when little dreaming of any change of fortune, 
I felt myself suddenly removed from my station ; and, im- 
mediately afterwards, underwent a curious operation, which, 
at the time, gave me considerable apprehensions for my 
safety ; but these were succeeded by pleasure, upon finding 
myself arrayed in a broad black frame, handsomely carved 
and gilt ; for, you will please to observe that the period, of 
which I am now speaking, was upwards of fourscore years 
ago. 

This process being finished, I was presently placed in the 
shop window, with my face to the street, which was one 
of the most public in the city. Here my attention was, at 
first, distracted by the constant succession of objects that 
passed before me. But it was not long before I began to 
remark the considerable degree of attention I myself ex- 
cited ; and how much I was distinguished, in this respect, 
from the other articles, my neighbours, in the shop window. 

I observed, that passengers, who appeared to be posting 
away upon urgent business, would often just turn and give 
me a friendly glance as they passed. But I was particularly 
gratified to observe, that, while the old, the shabby, and the 
wretched, seldom took any notice of me, the young, the 
gay, and the handsome, generally paid me this compliment ; 
and that these good-looking people always seemed the best 
pleased with me ; which I attributed to their superior dis- 
cernment. 

I well remember one young lady, who used to pass my 
master's shop regularly every morning, in her way to school, 



NATIONAL READER. 115 

and who never omitted to turn her head to look at me as 
she went by ; so that, at last, we became well acquainted 
with each other. I must confess, that, at this period of my 
life, I was in great danger of becoming insufferably vain, 
from the regards that were then paid me ; and, perhaps, I 
am not the only individual, who has formed mistaken notions 
of the attentions he receives in society. 

My vanity, however, received a considerable check from 
one circumstance : nearly all the goods by which I was sur- 
rounded, in the shop window, — though, many of them, much 
more homely in their structure, and humble in their destina- 
tions, — were disposed of sooner than myself. I had the 
mortification of seeing one after another bargained for and 
sent away, while I remained, month after month, without a 
purchaser. 

At last, however, a gentleman and lady, from the country, 
who had been standing some time in the street, inspecting, 
and, as I perceived, conversing about me, walked into the 
shop ; and, after some altercation with my master, agreed to 
purchase me ; upon which, I was packed up, and sent off. 
I was very curious, you may suppose, upon arriving at my 
new quarters, to see what kind of life I was likely to lead. 
I remained, however, some time, unmolested in my packing- 
case, and veicj flat I felt there. 

Upon being, at last, unpacked, I found myself in the hall 
of a large, lone house in the country. My master and mis- 
tress, I soon learned, were new-married people, just setting 
up house-keeping; and I was intended to decorate their 
best parlour, to which I was presently conveyed, and, after 
some little discussion between them, in fixing my longitude 
and latitude, I was hung up opposite the fire-place, in an 
angle of ten degrees from the wall, according to the fashion 
of those times. 

And there I hung, year after year, almost in perpetual 
solitude. My master and mistress were sober, regular, old- 
fashioned people ; they saw no company, except at fair time 
and Christmas-day ; on which occasions, only, they occupied 
the best parlour. My countenance used to brighten up, 
when I saw the annual fire kindled in that ample gTate, and 
when a cheerful circle of country cousins assembled round 

I it. At those times I always got a little notice from the 
young folks ; but, those festivities over, I was condemned to 
, another half year of complete loneliness. 

How familiar to my recollection, at this hour, is that large, 



ai5 



116 NATIONAL READER, 

old-fasliioned parlour ! I can remember, as well as if I had 
seen them but yesterday, the noble flowers on the crimson 
damask chair-covers and window-curtains ; and those curi- 
ously carved tables and chairs. I could describe every one 
of the stories on the Dutch tiles that surrounded the grate, 

I the rich China ornaments on the wide mantel-piece, and the 

pattern of the paper hangings, which consisted alternately 
of a parrot, a poppy, and a shepherdess,- — a parrot, a poppy, 
and a shepherdess. 

! The room being so little used, the window-shutters were 

I rarely opened ; but there were three holes cut in each, in 

the shape of a heart, through which, day after day, and 
year after year, I used to watch the long, dim, dusty sun- 

ifM beams, streaming across the dark parlour. I should men- 

tion, however, that I seldom missed a short visit from my 
master and mistress on a Sunday morning, when they came 
down stairs ready dressed for church. I can remember 
how my mistress used to trot in upon her high-heeled 
shoes ; unfold a leaf of one of the shutters ; then come and 
stand straight before me ; then turn half round to the right - 
and left ; never failing to see if the corner of her well-starch- 
ed handkerchief was pinned exactly in the middle. I think 
I can see her now, in her favourite dove-coloured lustring, 
(which she wore every Sunday in every summer for seven 
years at the least,) and her long, full ruffles, and worked 
apron. Then followed my good master, who, though his 
Adsit was somewhat shorter, never failed to come and settle 
his Sunday wig before me. 

Time rolled away, and m)'- master and mistress, with all 
that appertained to them, insensibly suffered from its influ- 
ence. When I first knew them, they were a young, bloom- 
ing couple as you would wish to see ; but I gradually per- 
ceived an alteration. My mistress began to stoop a little ; 
and my master got a cough, which troubled him, more or 
less, to the end of his days. At first, and for many years, 
my mistress' foot upon the stairs was light and nimble, and 
she would come in as blithe and as brisk as a lark ; but, at 
last, it was a slow, heavy step ; and even my master's began 
to totter. And, in these respects, every thing else kept pace 
with them : the crimson damask, that I remembered so fresh 
and bright, was now faded and worn ; the dark polished 
mahogan}?" was, in some places, w^orm eaten ; the parrot's 
gay plumage on the walls grew dull ; and I myself, though 
long unconscious of it, partook of the universal decay. 



NATIONAL KEADER. 117 

The dissipated taste I acquired upon my first introduction 
to society, had, long since, subsided ; and the quiet, sombre 
life I led, gave me a grave, meditative turn. The change, 
which I witnessed in all things around me, caused me to 
reflect much on their vanity ; and when, upon the occasions 
before-mentioned, I used to see the gay, blooming faces of 
the young saluting me with so much complacency, I would 
fain have admonished them of the alteration they must soon 
undergo, and have told them how certainly their bloom, also, 
must fade away as a flower. But, alas ! you know, sir, 
looking-glasses can only reflect. 



LESSON LX. 

The Silent Expression of Nature. — Anonymous.^ 
"There is no speech nor language ^their voice is not heard." — Ps. xix. 3. 

When, thoughtful, to the vault of heaven 

I lift my wondering eyes. 
And see the clear and quiet even 

To night resign the skies, — 
The moon, in silence, rear her crest. 

The stars, in silence, shine, — 
A secret rapture fills my breast, 

That speaks its birth divine. 

Unheard, the dews around me fall, 

And heavenly influence shed, 
And, silent, on this earthly ball, 

Celestial footsteps tread. 
Aerial music wakes the spheres. 

Touched by harmonious powers : 
With sounds, unheard by mortal ears. 

They charm the lingering hours. 

Night reigns, in silence, o'er the pole. 

And spreads her gems unheard : 
Her lessons penetrate the soul, 

Yet borrow not a word. 

* From "Mus£E Biblicge," published, London, 1819. 



118 NATIONAL READER. 

Noiseless the sun emits his fire, 

' And pours his golden streams ; 
And silently the shades retire 
Before his rising heams. 

The hand that moves, and regulates, 

And guides the vast machine, — 
That governs wills, and times, and fates,- 

Retires, and works unseen. 
Angelic visitants forsake 

Their amaranthine howers ; 
On 'silent wing their stations take, 

And watch the allotted hours. 

Sick of the vanity of man, — 

His noise, and pomp, and show, — 
I'll move upon great Nature's plan, 

And, silent, work below. 
With inward harmony of soul, 

I'll wait the upper sphere ; 
Shining, I'll mount above the pole, 

And break my silence there. 



LESSON LXI.^ . 

A Thought. — Blackwood's Magazine. 

O COULD we step into the grave, 

And lift the coffin lid. 
And look upon the greedy worms 

That eat away the dead, — 

It well might change the reddest cheek 

Into a lily white. 
And freeze the warmest blood, to look 

Upon so sad a sight ! 

Yet still it were a sadder sight, 

If, in that lump of clay, 
There were a sense, to feel the worms 

So busy with their prey. 



NATIONAL READER. 119 

pity, then, the living heart, — 

The lump of living clay, — 
On which the canker-worms of guilt 

Forever, ever prey. 



LESSON LXII. 

Fidelity. — Wokdsworth. 



A BARKING sound the shepherd hears, 

A cry as of a dog or fox ; — 
He halts, and searches with his eyes 

Among the scattered rocks : 
And now, at distance, can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern. 
From which immediately leaps out 
A dog, and, yelping, runs about. - 

The dog is not of mountain breed ; 

Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; 
With something — as the shepherd thinks — 

Unusual in its cry: 
Nor is there any one in sight. 
All round, in hollow, or on height; 
Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes his ear : — 
What is the creature doing here ? 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps, till June, December's snow ; 
A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn^ below ! 
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
Remote from public road or dwelling, 
Pathway or cultivated land. 
From trace of human foot or hand. 

There, sometimes, does a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer : 

The crags repeat the raven's croak, 
In symphony austere. 

* Tarn is a small mere or lake, mostly high up in the mountains. 



120 NATIONAL READER. 

Thither the rainbow comes ; the cloud ; 
And mists, that spread the flying- shroud ; 
And sun-beams ; and the sounding blast, 
That, if it could, would hurry past : — 
But that enormous barrier binds it fast. 

Not knowing what to think, a while 

The shepherd stood ; then makes his way 

To' wards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, 
As quickly as he may ; 

Nor far had gone, before he found 

A human skeleton on the ground : 

Sad sight ! the shepherd, -with a sigh, 

Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks, 

The man had fallen, — that place of fear ! — 
At length, upon the shepherd's mind 

It breaks, and all is clear. 
He instantly recalled the name. 
And who he was, and whence he came ; 
Remembered, too, the very day 
On which the traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder now, for sake 
Of which this mournful tale I tell ! 

A lasting monument of words 
This wonder merits well : — 

The dog, which still was hovering"^ nigh, 

Repeating the same timid cry. 

This dog had been, through three months' space, 

A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes,t proof was plain, that, since the day 

On which the traveller thus had died. 
The dog had watched about the spot. 

Or by his master's side : 
How nourished here, through such long time, 
He knows, who gave that love sublime. 
And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate. 

* Pron. huv'-ur-ing. t yiss. 



NATIONAL READER. 121 

LESSON LXIII. 

Solitude. — Henry K. White. 

It is not that my lot is low, 
That bids this silent tear to flow : 
It is not grief that bids me moan : 
It is — that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam, 
When the tired hedger hies him home ; 
Or, by the woodland pool to rest. 
When pale the star looks on its breast. 

Yet, when the silent evening sighs, 
With hallowed airs and symphonies, 
My spirit takes another tone. 
And sighs that it is all alone. 

The autumn leaf is sear and dead : 
It floats upon the water's bed : — 
I would not be a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh. 

The woods and winds, with sudden wail, 
Tell all the same unvaried tale : — 
I've none to smile when I am free, 
And, when I sigh, to sigh with me. 

Yet, in my dreams, a form I view, 
That thinks on me, and loves me too : 
I start ; — and, when the vision's flown, 
I weep, that I am all alone. 



LESSON LXIV. 

Necessity of Industry, even to Genius. — V. Knox. 

From the revival of learning to the present day, every 
thing that labour and ingenuity can invent, has been pro- 
duced to facilitate the acquisition of knowledge. But, not- 
11 



122 NATIONAL READER. 

withstanding all the Introductions, the Translations, the An- 
notations, and the Interpretations, I must assure the student, 
that industry, great and persevering industry, is absolutely 
necessary to secure any very valuable and distinguished im- 
provement. Superficial qualifications are indeed obtained at 
an easy price of time and labour ; but superficial qualifica- 
tions confer neither honour, emolument, nor satisfaction. 

The pupil may be introduced, by the judgment and the 
liberality of his parents, to the best schools, the best tutors, 
the best books ; and his parents may be led to expect, from 
such advantages alone, extraordinary advancement. But 
these things are all extraneous. The mind of the pupil 
must be accustomed to submit to labour ; sometimes to 
painful labour. 

The poor and solitary student, who has never enjoyed any 
of these advantages, but in the ordinary manner, will, by his 
own application, emerge to merit, fame, and fortune ; while 
th^ indolent, who has been taught to lean on the supports 
which opulence supplies, will sink into insignificance. His 
mind will have contracted habits of inactivity, and inactivity 
causes imbecility. 

I repeat, that the first great object is, to induce the mind 
to work within itself, to think long and patiently on the same 
subject, and to compose in various styles, and in various 
metres. It must be led not only to bear, but to seek, occa- 
sional solitude. If it is early habituated to all these exer- 
cises, it will find its chief pleasure in them ; for the energies 
of the mind afiect it with the finest feelings. 

But is industry, such industry as I require, necessary to 
genius ? The idea, that it is not necessary, is productive 
of the greatest evils. We often form a wrong judgment in 
determining who is, and who is not, endowed with this 
noble privilege. A boy who appears lively and talkative, is 
often supposed by his parents to be a genius. He is sufifer- 
ed to be idle, for he is a genius ; and genius is only injured 
by application. 

Now it usually happens, that the very lively and talkative 
boy is the most deficient in genius. His forwardness arises 
from a defect of those fine sensibilities, which, at the same 
time, occasion diffidence and constitute genius. He ought 
to be inured to literary labour ; for, without it, he will be 
prevented, by levity and stupidity, from receiving any valu- 
able impressions. 

Parents and instructors must be very cautious how they 



NATIONAL READER. 123 

dispense with diligence, from an idea that the pupil possesses 
genius sufficient to compen'sate for the want of it. All men 
are liable to mistake in deciding on genius at a very early^ 
age ; but parents more than all, from their natural partiality. 

On no account, therefore, let them dispense with close 
application. If the pupil has genius, this will improve and 
adorn it ; if he has not, it is confessedly requisite to supply 
the defect. Those prodigies of genius, which require not 
instruction, are rare phenomena : we read, and we hear of 
such ; but few of us have seen and known such. 

What is genius worth without knowledge ? But is a man 
ever born without knowledge ? It is true, that one man is 
born with a better capacity than another, for the reception 
and retention of ideas ; but still the mind must operate in 
collecting, arranging, and discriminating those ideas, which 
it receives with facility. And I believe the mind of a genius 
is often very laboriously at work, when, to the common 
observer, it appears to be quite inactive. 

I most anxiously wish, that a due attention may be paid 
to my exhortations, when I recommend great and ex'emplary 
diligence. All that is excellent in learning depends upon it. 
And how can the time of a boy or a young man be better 
employed ? It cannot be more pleasantly ; for I am sure, 
that industry, by presenting a constant succession of various 
objects, and by precluding the listlessness of inaction, ren- 
ders life, at all stages of it, agreeable, and particularly so in 
the restless season of youth. 

It cannot be more innocently ; for learning has a connex- 
ion with virtue ; and he, whose time is fully engaged, will 
escape many vices and much misery. It cannot be more 
usefully ; for he, who furnishes his mind with ideas, and 
strengthens his faculties, is preparing himself to become a 
valuable member of society, whatever place in it he may 
obtain ; and he is likely to obtain an exalted place. 



LESSON LXV. 

Story of Matilda. — Goldsmith. 

Our happiness is in the power of One, who can bring it 
about in a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our fore- 
sight. If example be necessary to prove this, I'll give you 



124 NATIONAL READER. 

a story, told us by a grave, though sometimes a romancing 
historian. 

" Matilda was married, very young, to a Neapolitan noble- 
man of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a 
mother at the age of fifteen. As she stood one day caress- 
ing her infant son in the open window of an apartment 
which hung over the river Volturnus, the child, with a sud- 
den spring, leaped from her arms into the flood below, and 
disappeared in a moment. 

"The mother, struck with instant surprise, and making 
an effort to save him, plunged in after ; but, far from being 
able to assist the infant, she herself, with great difficulty, 
escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French sol- 
diers Avere plundering the country on that side, who imme- 
diately made her their prisoner. 

" As the war was then carried on between the French and 
Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going at 
once to perpetrate those two extremes suggested by appetite 
and cruelty. This base resolution, however, was opposed 
by a young officer, who, though their retreat required the 
utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her 
in safety to his native city. 

" Her beauty at first caught his eye, her merit, soon after, 
his heart. They were married : he rose to the highest 
posts : they lived long together, and were happy. But the 
felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent. After 
an interval of several years, the troops which he command- 
ed having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shel- 
ter in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here 
they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. 

"Few histories can produce more various instances of 
cruelty, than those which the French and Italians, at that 
time, exercised upon each other. It was resolved by the 
victors, upon this occasion, to put all the French prisoners 
to death ; but particularly the husband of the unfortunate 
Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting 
the siege. Their determinations were, in general, executed 
almost as soon as resolved upon. 

" The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner 
with his sword stood ready, while the spectators in gloomy 
silence awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended 
till the general, who presided as judge, should give the sig- 
nal. It was in this interval of anguish and expectation, that 
Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband and 






NATIONAL READER. 125 

deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty 
of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a premature 
death in the river Volturnus, to be the spectator of still 
greater calamities. 

" The general, who was a young man, was struck with 
surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress ; but with 
still stronger emotions, when he heard her mention her 
former dangers. He was her son — the infant, for whom she 
had encountered so much danger. He acknowledged her 
at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may 
be easily supposed : the captive was set free, and all the 
happiness that love, friendship, and duty, could confer on 
each, was enjoyed." . 



LESSON LXVI. 

The Man of Ross. — Pope. 




But all our praises why should lords engross ? 
Rise, honest muse ! and sing the man of Ross ; 
Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, 
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. 
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow ? 
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow ? 
Not to the skies in useless columns tossed, ^ 

Or in proud falls magnificently lost. 
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain 
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. 

Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ? 
Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? 
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? 
" The man of Ross," each lisping babe replies. 
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread ! 
The man of Ross divides the weekly bread : 
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state. 
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate : 
Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blessed. 
The young who labour, and the old who rest. 

Is any sick ? The man of Ross relieves. 
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. 
Is there a variance ? Enter but his door, 
Balked are the courts, and contest is no more. 
11^ 



V 



126 NATIONAL READER. 

Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, 
And vile attorneys, now a useless race. 

Thrice happy man ! enabled to pursue 
What all so wish, but want the power to do ! 
O say, what sums that generous hand supply ? 
What mines to swell that boundless charity ? — 
Of debts, and taxes, wife, and children clear. 
This man possessed five hundred pounds a year. 
Blush, grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw your blaze ! 
Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays ! 

And what ! no monument, inscription, stone ! 
His race, his form, his name, almost unknown ! — 
Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, 
Will never mark the marble with his name. 
Go search it there, where to be born and die. 
Of rich and poor, makes all the history ; 
Enough, that virtue filled the space between ; 
Proved by the ends of being to have been. 



LESSON LXVII. 

Early RecoUectiojis. — New Monthly Magazine. 

It is delightful to fling a glance back to our early years, 
and recall our boyish actions, glittering with the light of hope 
and the sanguine expectations of incipient being. But the 
remembrance of our sensations when we were full of elasti- 
city, when life was new, and every sense and relish keen, 
when the eye saw nothing but a world of beauty and glory 
around, every object glittering in golden resplendency — is 
the most agreeable thing of all. 

The recollection of boyish actions gives small gratification 
to persons of mature years, except for what may, perchance, 
be associated with them. But youthful sensations, experi- 
enced when the edge of enjoyment was most keen, and the 
senses exquisitely susceptible, furnish delightful recollections, 
that cling around some of us, in the last stage of life, like 
the principle of being itself. How do we recollect the ex- 
quisite taste of a particular fruit or dish to have been then ! 
how delicious a cool draught from the running stream ! A 
landscape, a particular tree, a field, how much better defined 
and delightfully coloured then, than they ever appeared 
afterwards! # =^ # # # # 



I 



NATIONAL READER. 127 

There was a single ti^ee opposite the door of my father's 
house : I remember even now, how every limb branched off, 
and that I thought no tree could be finer or larger. I loved 
its shade ; I played under it for years ; but when I visited 
it, after my first absence for a few months from home, though 
I recognised it with intense interest, it appeared lessened in 
size I it was an object I loved, but as a tree it no longer 
attracted wonder at its dimensions. During my absence I 
had travelled in a forest of much larger trees, and the plea- 
sure and well-defined image in my mind's eye, which I owed 
to the singleness of this object, I never again experienced in 
observing another. 

Can I ever forget the sunny side of the wood, where I 
used to linger away my hol'ydays among the falling leaves 
of the trees in autumn ! I can recall the very smell of the 
sere foliage to recollection ; and the sound of the dashing 
water is even now in my ear. The rustling of the boughs, 
the sparkling of the stream, the gnarled trunks of the old 
oaks around, long since levelled by the axe, left impressions 
only to be obliterated by death. The pleasure I then felt 
was undefinable ; but I was satisfied to enjoy without caring 
whence my enjoyment arose. 

The old church-yard and its yew-trees, where I sacrile- 
giously enjoyed my pastimes among the dead, — and the ivied 
tower, the belfry of which I frequently ascended, and won- 
dered at the skill, which could form such ponderous masses 
as the bells, and lift them so high, — these were objects that, 
on Sundays particularly, often filled my mind, upon viewing 
them, with a sensation that cannot be put into language. 

It was not joy, but a soothing, tranquil delight, that made 
me forget, for an instant, that I had any desire in the world 
unsatisfied. I have often thought since, that this state of 
mind must have approached pretty closely to happiness. 
As we passed the church-way path to the old Gothic porch 
on Sundays, I used to spell the inscriptions on the tombs, 
and wonder at the length of a life that exceeded sixty or 
seventy years ; for days then passed slower than weeks pass 
now. 

I visited, the other day, the school-room where I had been 
once the drudge of a system of learning, the end of which 
I could not understand, and where, as was then the fash- 
ion, every method taken seemed intended to disgust the 
scholar with those studies he should be taught to love. I 
saw my name cut in the desk ; I looked again on my old 



128 NATIONAL READER. 

seat ; but my youthful recollections of the worse than eastern 
slavery I there endured, made me regard what I saw with a 
feeling of peculiar distaste. 

If one thing more than another prevent my desiring the 
days of my youth to return, it is the horror I feel for the 
despotism of the pedagogue. For years after I left school, 
I looked at the classics with disgust. I remembered the 
heart-burnings, the tears, and the pains, the monkish method 
of teaching — now almost wholly confined to our public schools 
— had caused me. It was long before I could take up a 
Horace, much less enjoy its perusal. 

It was not thus with the places I visited during the short 
space of cessation from task and toil that the week allowed. 
The meadow, where, in true jovialness of heart, I had leap- 
ed, and raced, and played — this recalled the contentedness 
of mind, and the overflowing tide of delight I once experi- 
enced, when, climbing the stile which led into it, I left be- 
hind me the book and the task. How the sunshine of the 
youthful breast burst forth upon me, and the gushing spirit 
of unreined and innocent exhilaration braced every fibre, 
and rushed through every vein ! 

The sun has never shone so brilliantly since. How fra^ 
grant were the flowers ! How deep the azure of the sky ! 
How vivid were the hues of nature ! How intense the short- 
lived sensations of pain and pleasure ! How generous were 
all impulses ! How confiding, open, and upright, all actions! 
" Inhumanity to the distressed, and insolence to the fallen," 
those besetting sins of manhood, how utterly strangers to 
the heart ! How little of sordid interests, and how much of 
intrepid honesty, was then displayed ! "^ # ^ ^ ^ 

The sensations peculiar to youth, being the result of im- 
pulse rather than reflection, have the advantage over those 
of manhood, however the pride of reason may give the lat- 
ter the superiority. In manhood there is always a burden 
of thought bearing on the wheels of enjoyment. In man- 
hood, too, we have the misfortune of seeing the wrecks of 
early associations scattered every where around us. Youth 
can see nothing of this. It can take no' review of antece- 
dent pleasures or pains that become such a source of melan- 
choly emotion in mature years. It has never sauntered 
through the rooms of a building, and recalled early days 
spent under its roof. 

I remember my feelings on an occasion of this sort, when 
I was like a traveller on the plain of Babylon, wondering 



NATIONAL READER. 129 

where all, that had once been to me so great and mighty, 
then was ; in what gulf the sounds of merriment, that once 
reverberated from the walls, the master, the domestic, the 
aged, and the young, had disappeared. Our early recollec- 
tions are pleasing to us, because they look not on the mor- 
row. Alas! what did that morrow leave when it had 
become merged in the past ! 

I have lately traversed the village in which I was born, 
without discovering a face that I knew. Houses have been 
demolished, fronts altered, tenements built, trees rooted up, 
and alterations effected, that made me feel a stranger amid 
the home of my fathers. The old-fashioned and roomy 
house, where my infant years had been watched by parental 
affection, had been long uninhabited : it was in decay : the 
storm beat through its fractured windows, and it was partly 
roofless. The garden, and its old elms, the scene associated 
with the cherished feelings of many a happy hour, lay a 
weedy waste : 

Amid thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ! 

But the picture it presented in my youth exhibits it as true 
and vivid as ever. It is hung up in memory in all its fresh- 
ness, and time cannot dilapidate its image. It is now become 
an essence, that defies the mutability of material things. It 
is fixed in ethereal colours on the tablets of the mind, and 
lives within the domain of spirit, within the circumference 
of which the universal spoiler possesses no sovereignty. 



LESSON LXVIIL 

On visiting a Scene of Childhood. — Blackwood's Magazine. 

" I came to the place of my birth, and said, ' The friends of my youth, where 
are they?' ana Echo answered, 'Where are they?"' 

Long years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene. 
Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of green, — 
The spot where, a school-boy, all thoughtless, I strayed 
By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade. 



150 NATIONAL READER. 

I thought of the friends, who had roamed with me there, 
When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair, — 
All scattered ! — all sundered by mountain and wave, 
And some in the silent embrace of the grave ! 

I thought of the green banks, that circled around, 

With wild-flowers, and sweet-brier, and eglantine crowned 

I thought of the river, all quiet and bright 

As the face of the sky on a blue summer night : 

And I thought of the trees, under which we had strayed, 
Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade ; 
And I hgped, though disfigured, some token to find 
Of the names, and the carvings, impressed on the rind. 

All eager, I hastened the scene to behold. 
Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old ; 
And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore 
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore. 

'Twas a dream ! — not a token or trace could I view 
Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew : 
Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, 
"Lij^e a tale that is told" — they had vanished away. 

And methought the lone river, that murmured along, 
Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, 
Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above. 
Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove. 

I paused : — and the moral came home to my heart : — 
Behold, how of earth all the glories depart ! 
Our visions are baseless, — our hopes but a gleam, — 
Our staff but a reed, — and our life but a dream. 

Then, 0, let us look — let our prospects allure-^ 
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure. 
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime 
O'er the blightings of Change, and the ruins of Time. 



NATIONAL READER. 131 

LESSON LXIX. 

The Little Graves. — Anonymous. 

'TwAS autumn, and the leaves were dry, 

And rustled on the ground, 
And chilly winds went whistling by, 

With low and pensive sound. 

As through the grave-yard's lone retreat, 

By meditation led, 
I walked, with slow and cautious feet. 

Above the sleeping dead, — . 

. Three little graves, ranged side by side, 
My close attention drew ; 
O'er two, the tall grass, bending, sighed. 
And one seemed fresh and new. 

As, lingering there, I mused awhile 
On death's long, dreamless sleep. 
And opening life's deceitful smile, 
' A mourner came to weep. 

Her form was bowed, but not with years, 

Her words were faint and few, 
And on those little graves her tears 

Distilled like evening dew. 

A prattling boy, some four years old. 

Her trembling hand embraced, 
And from my heart the tale he told 

Will never be effaced. 

"Mamma',"^ now you must love me more. 

For little sister's dead ; 
And t'other sister died before, 

And brother too, you said. 

" Mamma, what made sweet sister die ? 
If She loved me when we played : 

You told me, if I would not cry, 
You'd show me where she's laid." 

* a sounded as in father. 



132 NATIONAL READER. 

" 'Tis here, my child, that sister lies, 

Deep buried in the ground : 
No light comes to her little eyes, 

And she can hear no sound." 

" Mamma, why can't we take her up, 

And put her in my bed ? 
I'll feed her from my little cup, 

And then she won't be dead. 

" For sister'll be afraid to lie 

In this dark grave to-night, 
And she'll be very cold, and cry, 

Because there is no light." 

" No, sister is not cold, my child ; 

For God, who saw her die, 
As he looked down from heaven and smiled, 

Recalled her to the sky. 

" And then her spirit quickly fled 
To God, by whom 'twas given ; 

Her body in the ground is dead, 
But sister lives in heaven." 

"Mamma, won't she be hungry there, 

And want some bread to eat ? 
And who will give her clothes to wear. 

And keep them clean and neat ? 

" Papa' must go and carry some ; 

I'll send her all I've got ; 
And he must bring sweet sister home, 

Mamma, now must he not ?" 

" No, my dear child, that cannot be ; 

But, if you're good and true, 
You'll one day go to her ; but she 

Can never come to you. 

" ' Let little children come to me^ 

Once our good Saviour said, 
And in his arms she'll always be, 

And God will give her bread." 



NATIONAL READER. 133 

LESSON LXX. 

Life and Death. — New Monthly Magazine. 

O FEAR not thou to die ! 

But rather fear to live ; for life 
Has thousand snares thy feet to try, 

By peril, pain, and strife. 
Brief is the work of death ; 

But life ! — the spirit shrinks to see 
How full, ere heaven recalls the breath, 

The cup of wo may be. 

fear not thou to die ! 

No more to suffer or to sin ; 
No snares without, thy faith to try, 

No traitor heart within : 
But fear, O ! rather fear, 

The gay, the light, the changeful scene, 
The flattering smiles that greet thee here, 

From heaven thy heart to wean. 

Fear, lest, in evil hour, — 

Thy pure and holy hope o'ercome. 
By clouds that in the horizon lower, — 

Thy spirit feel that gloom. 
Which, over earth and heaven, 

The covering throws of fell despair ; 
And deems itself the unforgiven, 

Predestined child of care. 

fear not thou to die ! 

To die, and be that blessed one, 
Who, in the bright and beauteous sky, 

May feel his conflict done — 
May feel that, never more. 

The tear of grief or shame shall come. 
For thousand wanderings from the Power 

Who loved, and called him home ! 
12 



■■■H 



134 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON LXXI. 

The Burial of Arnold.^ — N. P. Willis. 

Ye've gathered to your place of prayer, 

With slow and measured tread : 
Your ranks are full, your mates all there — 

But the soul of one has fled. 
He was the proudest in his strength, 

The manliest of ye all ; 
Why lies he at that fearful length, 

And ye around his pall ? 

Ye reckon it in days, since he 

Strode up that foot-worn aisle, 
With his dark eye flashing gloriously. 

And his lip wreathed with a smile. 
O, had it been but told you then, 

To mark whose lamp was dim, 
From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, 

Would ye have singled him ? 

Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung 

Defiance to the ring ? 
Whose laugh of victory loudest rung, 

Yet not for glorying ? 
Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, 

No rivalry might brook, 
And yet distinction claiming not ? 

There lies he— go and look ! 

On now — his requiem is done, 

The last deep prayer is said— - 
On to his burial, comrades— on* 

With the noblest of the dead ! 
Slow — for it presses heavily — 

It is a man ye bear ! 
Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily 

On the noble sleeper there. 

Tread lightly, comrades ! — ^we have laid 
His dark locks on his brow — 

* A member of the senior class in Yale College. 



NATIONAL READER. 135 

Like life — save deeper light and shade : — 

We'll not disturb them now. 
Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful, 

That blue veined eye-lid's sleep, 
Hiding the eye death left so dull — 

Its slumber Ave will keep. 

Rest now ! — ^his journeying is done — 

Your feet are on his sod — 
Death's chain is on your champion — ' 

He waiteth here his God ! 
Ay — turn and weep — 'tis manliness 

To be heart-broken here— 
For the grave of earth's best nobleness 

Is watered by the tear. 



LESSON LXXIL 

Cruelty to Animals reproved. — Mayor. 

A YOUNGSTER, whose name we shall conceal, because it 
is not for his credit it should be known, was amusing him- 
self with a beetle stuck on a pin, and seemed vastly de- 
lighted with the gyrations^ it made, occasioned by the torture 
it felt. Harley saw this with emotion ; for he would not. wan- 
tonly have injured the most contemptible animal that breathes. 

He rebuked the unfeeling youth in the following terms ; 
and the impression, which the lecture made, was never after 
effaced from his mind : " I am deeply concerned," said he, 
" to observe any one, whom I so tenderly love, fond of 
'cruel sport. Do you think that the poor beetle, which you 
are thus agonizing, is incapable of sensation ? And if you 
are aware that it feels pain as well as you, how can you 
receive amusement from its torture ? Animals, it is true, 
were formed for the use of man ; but reason and humanity 
forbid us to abuse them. 

" Every creature, not immediately noxious to our kind, 
ought to be cherished, or, at least, not injured. The heart of 
sensibility bleeds for misery wherever it is seen. No amuse- 
ment can be rational that is founded on another's pain. I 
know you take delight in bird-nesting : I wish to discourage 
this pursuit too. 

* g- sounded like J. 




136 NATIONAL READER. 

" Consider how little you gain, and how much distress you 
occasion to some of the most beautiful and lovely of crea- 
tion's tribes. You destroy the eggs, from which the fond 
bird hoped to rear an offspring ; or, what is still more cruel, 
' you rob her of her young, when maternal care and affection 

are at the highest pitch. Could you possibly conceive what 

I i the parent bird must suffer from this deprivation, you would 

be ashamed of your insensibility. 

II " The nightingale, robbed of her tender young, is said to 
sing most sweetly ; but it is the plaintive voice of lacerated 
nature, not the note of joy. It should be heard as the ex- 
pression of distress ; and, if you are the cause of it, you 

- ought to apply it to yourself. 

' O then, ye friends of love, and love-taught song, 
Spare the soft tribes ! this barbarous art forbear 
If on your bosom innocence can win, 
Music engage, or piety persuade !' 

" Even the meanest insects receive an existence from the 
Author of our being; and why should you abridge their 
span ? They have their little sphere of bliss allotted them ; 
they have purposes, which they are destined to fulfil ; and, 
when these are accomplished, they die. Thus it is with 
you ! You have, indeed, a more extensive range of action, 
more various and important duties to discharge ; and well 
will it be for you if you discharge them aright. 

" But think not, because you have reason and superiority 
given you, that irrational animals are beneath your regard. 
In proportion as you enjoy the benefits they are adapted to 
confer, you should be careful to treat them with tenderness 
and humanity : it is the only return you can make. Re- 
member, every thing that has life is doomed to suffer and to 
feel, though its expression of pain may not be capable of 
being conveyed to your ears. 

" To the most worthless reptile, to the most noxious ani- 
mal, some pity is due. If its life is dangerous to you, it may 
be destroyed without blame ; but let it be done without cruel- 
ty. To torture is unmanly ; to tyrannise, where there can 
be no resistance, is the extreme of baseness. 
' " I never knew an amiable person, who did not feel an 

attachment for animals. A boy who is not fond of his bird, 
his rabbit, his dog, or his horse, or whatever other creature 
he takes under his protection, will never have a good heart, 
and will always be wanting in affection to his own kind. 



NATIONAL READER. 137 

But he, who, after admonition, delights in misery, or sports 
with life, must have a disposition and a heart that I should 
blush to own: he is neither qualified to he happy himself, 
nor will he ever make others so." 



LESSON LXXIII. 



Impolicy and Injustice of Excessive Severity in Punishments. — 

Goldsmith. 

It were highly to be wished, that legislative power would 
direct the law rather to reformation than severity ; that it 
would seem convinced, that the work of eradicating crimes 
is not by making punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, 
instead of our present prisons, which find, or make men 
guilty ; which enclose wretches for the commission of one 
crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the per- 
petration of thousands ; it were to be wished, we had places 
of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be at- 
tended by such as could give them repentance, if guilty, or 
new motives to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the 
increasing of punishments, is the way to mend a state. 

Nor can I avoid even questioning the validity of that 
right, which social combinations have assumed, of capitally 
punishing offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder 
their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the 
law of self-defence, to cut off that man who hath shown a 
disregard for the life of another. Against such all nature 
rises in arms. 

But it is not so against him who steals my property. Na- 
tural law gives me no right to take away his life, as, by that, 
the horse he steals is as much his property as mine. If, 
■ then, I have any right, it must be from a compact made be- 
tween us, that he, who deprives the other of his horse, shall 
die. But this is a false compact ; because no man has a 
right to barter his life, any more than to take it away, as it 
is not his own. 

And, besides, the compact is inadequate, and would be 
set aside, even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great 
penalty for a trifling convenience ; since it is far better that 
two men should live, than that one should ride. But a 
compact that is false between two men, is equally so 
12^ 



138 NATIONAL READER. 

between a hundred and a hundred thousand; for as ten 
millions of circles can never make a square, so the united 
voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to 
falsehood. 

It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored nature says 
the same thing. Savages, that are directed by natural law 
alone, are tender of the lives of each other ; they seldom 
shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty. =^ =^ # # ^ =^ 

It were to be wished, then, that power instead of contriv- 
ing new laws to punish vice ; instead of drawing hard the 
cords of society, till a convulsion come to burst them ; in- 
stead of cutting away wretches as useless, before we have 
tried their utility ; instead of converting correction into ven- 
geance ; it were to be wished, that we tried the restrictive 
arts of government, and made law the protector, but not the 
tyrant, of the people. 

We should then find, that creatures, whose souls are held 
as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner ; we should then 
find, that wretches, now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxu- 
ry should feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, 
serve to sinew the state in times of danger ; that, as their 
faces are like ours, their hearts are so too ; that few minds 
are so base as that perseverance cannot amend ; that a man 
may see his last crime without dying for it ; and that very 
little blood will serve to cement our security. 



LESSON LXXIV. 

Address to Liberty. — Cowper. 

0, COULD I worship aught beneath the skies 
That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise, 
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, 
Built by no mercenary, vulgar hand. 
With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair 
As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air. 

Duly, as ever on the mountain's height 
The peep of morning shed a dawning light ; 
Again, when evening in her sober vest 
Drew the gray curtain of the fading west ; 
My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praise 
For the chief blessings of my fairest days : 



NATIONAL READER. 339 

But that were sacrilege : praise is not thine, 

But His, who gave thee, and preserves thee mine : 

Else I would say, — and, as I spake, bid fly 

A captive bird into the boundless sky, — 

This rising realm adores thee ; thou art come 

From Sparta hither, and art here at home ; 

We feel thy force still active ; at this hour 

Enjoy immunity from priestly power ; 

While conscience, happier than in ancient years, 

Owns no superior, but the God she fears. 

Propitious Spirit ! yet expunge a wrong 
Thy rights have suffered, and our land, too long ; 
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share 
The fears and hopes of a commercial care : 
Prisons expect the wicked, and were built 
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt ; 
But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood, 
Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood : 
And honest merit stands on slippery ground, 
Where covert guile, and artifice abound. 
Let just restraint, for public peace designed, 
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind : — 
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee : — 
But let insolvent innocence go free. 



LESSON LXXV. 

The Hermit. — Beattie. 



At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, — 

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove ; 
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, 

And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ;- 
'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar, 

WTiile his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ;- 
No more with himself or with nature at war, 

He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man ; — 

" Ah, why, thus abandoned to darkness and wo. 
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 

For spring shall return, and a lover bestow. 
And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral. 



TJ—J l 



140 NATIONAL READER. 

But, if pity inspire thee, renew thy sad lay ; 

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn : 
O soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away — 

Full quickly they pass— hut they never return. 

"Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, 

The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays : . 
But lately I marked, when, majestic on high, 

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 

The path that conducts thee to splendor again : 
But man's faded glory no change shall renew ! 

Ah fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 

" 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; 

I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
For morn is approaching your charms to restore. 

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. 
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn : 

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! 

O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave !" 

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, 

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind. 
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 

Destruction before me and sorrow behind : 
" pity, great Father of light," then I cried, 

" Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee ! 
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; 

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free." 

And darkness and doubt are now flying away : 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray. 

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, 

And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 
On the eold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, 

And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. 



NATIONAL READER. 141 

LESSON LXXVI. 

Hymn to the Stars. — Monthly Repository. 

Ay, there ye shine, and there have shone, 

In one eternal 'hour of prime,' 
Each rolling burningly, alone, 

Through boundless space and countless time. 
Ay, there ye shine, the golden dews 

That pave the realms by seraphs trod ; 
There, through yon echoing vault, diffuse 

The song of choral worlds to God. 

Ye visible spirits I bright as erst 

Young Eden's birthnight saw ye shine 
On all her flowers and fountains first, 

Yet sparkling from the hand divine ; 
Yes, bright as then ye smiled, to catch 

The music of a sphere so fair. 
Ye hold your high, immortal watch, 

And gird your God's pavilion there. 

Gold frets to dust, — yet there ye are ; 

Time rots the diamond, — there ye roll 
In primal light, as if each star 

Enshrined an everlasting soul ! 
And does it not — -since your bright throngs 

One all-enlightening Spirit own, 
Praised there by pure, sidereal tongues, 

Eternal, glorious, blest, alone ? 

Could man but see what ye have seen. 

Unfold awhile the shrouded past. 
From all that is, to what has been, 

The glance how rich ! the range how vast ! 
The birth of time, the rise, the fall 

Of empires, myriads, ages flown, 
Thrones, cities, tongues, arts, worships, — all 

The things whose echoes are not gone. 

Ye saw rapt Zoroaster send 

His soul into your mystic reign ; 
Ye saw the adoring Sabian bend — 

The living hills his mighty fane ! 



■^^■^^^i^^MaM«^Piiv^mwpmi«i«H 



mmm 



142 NATIONAL READER. 

Beneath his bhie and beaming sky, 
He worshipped at your lofty shrine, 

And decerned he saw, with gifted eye, 
The Godhead in his works divine. 

And there ye shine, as if to mock 

The children of a mortal sire. 
The storm, the bolt, the earthquake's shock, 

The red volcano's cataract fire, 
Drought, famine, plague, and blood, and flame, 

All nature's ills, — and life's worse woes, — 
Are nought to you : ye smile the same. 

And scorn alike their dawn and close. 

Ay, there ye roll — emblems sublime 

Of Him, whose spirit o'er us moves, 
Beyond the clouds of grief and crime, 

Still shining on the world he loves : — 
Nor is one scene to mortals given. 

That more divides the soul and sod, 
Than yon proud heraldry of heaven — 

Yon burning blazonry of God \ 



LESSON LXXVIL 

Religion the only Basis of Society. — Channlng. 

Religion is a social concern ; for it operates powerfully 
on society, contributing, in various ways, to its stability and 
prosperity. Religion is not merely a private aflair ; the 
community is deeply interested in its diffusion ; for it is the 
best support of the virtues and principles, on which the 
social order rests. Pure and undefiled religion is, to do 
good ; and it follows, very plainly, that, if God be the Author 
and Friend of society, then, the recognition of him must en- 
force all social duty, and enlightened piety must give its 
whole strength to public order. 

Few men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends, the ex- 
tent of the support given by religion to every virtue. No 
man, perhaps, is aAvare, how much our moral and social 
sentiments are fed from this fountain ; how powerless con- 
science would become, without the belief of a God ; how 



H 



NATIONAL READER. 143 

palsied would be human benevolence, were there not the 
sense of a higher benevolence to quicken and sustain it ; 
how suddenly the whole social fabric would quake, and with 
what a fearful crash it would sink into hopeless ruin, were 
the ideas of a supreme Being, of accountableness, and of a 
future life, to be utterly erased from every mind. 

And, let men thoroughly believe that they are the work ^ 
and sport of chance ; that no superior intelligence concerns 
itself with human affairs ; that all their improvements perish 
forever at death ; that the weak have no guardian, and the 
injured no avenger ; that there is no recompense for sacri- 
fices to uprightness and the public good ; that an oath is 
unheard in heaven ; that secret crimes have no witness but 
the perpetrator ; that human existence has no purpose, and 
human virtue no unfailing friend ; that this brief life is 
every thing to us, and death is total, everlasting extinction; 
once let them thoroughly abandon religion ; and who can 
conceive or describe the extent of the desolation which would 
follow ! 

We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sympathy 
would hold society together. As reasonably might we 
believe, that, were the sun quenched in the heavens, our 
torches would illuminate, and our fires quicken and fertilize 
the creation. What is there in human nature to awaken 
respect and tenderness, if man is the unprotected insect of a 
day ? And what is he more, if atheism be true ? 

Erase all thought and fear of God from a community, and 
selfishness and sensuality would absorb the whole man. Ap- 
petite, knowing no restraint, and suffering, having no solace 
or hope, would trample in scorn on the restraints of human 
laws. Virtue, duty, principle, would be mocked and spurn- 
ed as unmeaning sounds. A sordid self-interest would sup- 
plant every other feeling ; and man would become, in fact, 
what the theory of atheism declares him to be, — a compan- 
ion for brutes. 



LESSON LXXVIII. 

Punishment of a Liar. — Bible. 

Now Na'aman, captain of the host of the king of Syria, 
was a great man with his master, and honourable ; because 



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144 NATIONAL READER. 

by him the Lord had given deliverance unto Syria : he was 
also a mighty man in valour ; but he was a lep'er. And 
the Syrians had gone out by companies, and had brought 
away captive, out of the land of Israel, a little maid ; and 
she waited on Naaman's wife. And she said unto her mis- 
tress, Would God my lord were with the prophet that is in 
Samaria ! for he would recover him of his leprosy. 

And one went in, and told his lord, saying, Thus and thus 
said the maid that is of the land of Israel. And the king of 
Syria said, Go to, go ; and I will send a letter unto the king 
of Israel. And he departed, and took w4th him ten talents 
of silver, and six thousand pieces of gold, and ten changes 
of raiment. And he brought the letter to the king of Israel, 
saying. Now, when this letter is come unto thee, behold, I 
have therewith sent Naaman my servant to thee, that thou 
mayest recover him of his leprosy. 

And it came to pass, when the king of Israel had read the 
letter, that he rent his clothes, and said. Am I God, to kill 
and to make alive, that this man doth send unto me to recover 
a man of his leprosy ? Wherefore consider, I pray you, and 
see how he seeketh a quarrel against me. 

And it was so, when Elisha, the man of God, had heard 
that the king of Israel had rent his clothes, that he sent to 
the king, saying. Wherefore hast thou rent thy clothes ? let 
him come now to me, and he shall know that there is a pro- 
phet in Israel. So Naaman came, with his horses and with 
his chariot, and stood at the door of the house of Elisha. 
And Elisha sent a messenger unto him, saying. Go and 
wash in Jordan seven times, and thy flesh shall come again 
to thee, and thou shalt be clean. 

But Naaman was wroth, and went away, and said, Behold, 
I thought. He will surely come out to me, and stand, and 
call on the name of the Lord his God, and strike his hand 
over the place, and recover the leper. Are not Ab'ana and 
Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of 
Israel ? may I not wash in them, and be clean ? So he 
turned, and went away in a rage. 

And his servants came near, and spake unto him, and said, 
My father, if the prophet had bid thee do some great thing, 
wouldest thou not have done it ? how much rather, then, 
when he saith to thee, Wash, and be clean ? Then went he 
down, and dipped himself seven times in Jordan, according 
to the saying of the man of God : and his flesh came again 
like unto the flesh of a little child, and he was clean. 



NATIONAL READER. 145 

And he returned to the man of God, he and all his com- 
pany, and came and stood before him : and he said. Behold, 
now I know that there is no God in all the earth but in 
Israel ; now therefore, I pray thee, take a blessing of thy 
servant. But he said. As the Lord liveth, before whom I 
stand, I will receive none. And he urged him to take it : 
but he refused. "^ ^ ^ ^ So he departed from him a 
little way. 

But Gehazi, the servant of Elisha, the man of God, said, 
Behold, my master hath spared Naaman this Syrian, in not 
receiving at his hands that which he brought ; but, as the 
Lord liveth, I will run after him, and take somewhat of him. 

So Gehazi followed after Naaman : and when Naaman 
saw him running after him, he lighted down from the cha- 
riot to meet him, and said. Is all well ? And he said, All is 
well. My master hath sent me, saying. Behold, even now 
there be come to me from mount Ephraim two young men 
of the sons of the prophets : give them, I pray thee, a talent 
of silver, and two changes of garments. 

And Naaman said, Be content ; take two talents. And he 
urged him, and bound two talents of silver in two bags, with 
two changes of garments, and laid them upon two of his ser- 
vants ; and they bare them before him. And when he came 
to the tower, he, took them from their hand, and bestowed 
them in the house ; and he let the men go, and they depart- 
ed. But he went in and stood before his master. 

And Elisha said unto him. Whence comest thou, Gehazi ? 
And he said. Thy servant went no whither. And he said 
unto him. Went not my heart with thee, when the man 
turned again from his chariot to meet thee ? Is it a time to 
receive money, and to receive garments, and oliveyards, and 
vineyards, and sheep, and oxen, and men-servants, and maid- 
servants ? The leprosy, therefore, of Naaman shall cleave 
unto thee. ^ ^ ^ ^ And he went out from his pre- 
sence a leper as white as snow. 



LESSON LXXIX. 

Claims of the Jews. — Noel. 



In very truth, there are claims, which the Jew can urge, 
in which the Gentile cannot share. In advocating the cause 

13 



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146 NATIONAL READER. 

of Israel, I would ask, and strongly too, Is the account of 
justice towards that nation settled ? Is the long arrear of 
Gentile gratitude to that nation discharged ? For to what 
blessing shall we refer, in the. long catalogue of our own 
mercies, which we have not derived from Israel ? 

Amidst the sorrows and vicissitudes of life, do we find 
daily consolations from God? Under the terrors of con- 
science, do we behold a peaceful asylum in the Gospel of 
Christ ? By the bed of dying worth, or at the oft-frequented 
grave of departed friendship, do we wipe away our tears in 
the prospect of a sure and certain hope of a resurrection to 
the life eternal ? 

From whence do all these consolations flow ? They flow 
to us from Judah. The Volume of God was penned by 
Jev/ish hands ; the Gospel was proclaimed by Jewish lips ; 
yea, that Sacred Victim on the cross, — the world's, only 
hope, the sinner's only joy, — wears not even he the liVea- 
mcnts of the children of Abraham ? And, without the blush 
of self-abasement, can we speculate any longer on our in- 
difference to the Jewish cause, and coldly complain, that we 
feel not here that energy of sym.pathy, which we can feel on 
other appeals to our compassion ? ^ ^ ^ =^ 

Christians ! at length remove the stigma ; repay the debt ; 
redeem the time ; admit the claims of justice ; ^deld to the 
impulse of gratitude ; feel, toil, supplicate for those, whose 
forefathers felt, and toiled, and prayed for you ! 

Think, I pray you, of all their former grandeur, and con- 
trast it with their present desolation. Such a contrast raises, 
even under ordinary circumstances, a keen emotion in the 
human heart. No sympathy is so strong as that, which is 
drawn forth by fallen greatness. The extent of the ruin is 
the very measure of that emotion. Why does the traveller 
fondly linger amidst the scenes of ancient art, or power, or 
influence ? Why, for so many a year, has the poet and the 
philosopher wandered amidst the fragments of Athens or of 
Rome ? why paused, with strange and kindling feelings, 
amidst their broken columns, their mouldering temples, their 
deserted plains ? It is because their day of glory is passed ; %\ 
it is because their name is obscured, their power is departed, 
their influence is lost ! The gloomy contrast casts a shade 
over the renown and the destiny of man. 

Similar emotions have, indeed, been often felt amidst the 
scenes of Jewish fame. The forsaken banks of Jordan, 
where the Psalmist once might tune his lyre, and utter his 



NATIONAL READER. ' 147 

prophetic songs ; the blighted plains of Galilee, 'where the 
Saviour might often bend his lonely steps to cheer the wi- 
dow's dwelling ; the ruined city, once the terror of surround- 
ing nations ; the forgotten temple, whose walls once echoed 
back the accents of that voice, " which spake as never man 
spake ;" — these images and memorials of former da^^s have 
often produced a solemn sadness in the minds of those, who 
have visited the shores of Palestine ; and these feelings have 
responded to the affecting complaint, " Thy holy cities are 
a wilderness, Zion is a wilderness, Jerusalem is a desola- 
tion. Our holy and our beautiful house, where our fathers 
praised thee, is burned up with fire, and all our pleasant 
things are laid waste." 

But is there no emphasis of sadness to be found in the 
sordid and degraded state of those, who wander through the 
world forgotten and forlorn, though once the honoured ser- 
vants, the favoured children, of the Lord ? 

Shall the sculptured stone, the broken shaft, the time- 
worn capital, even the poor fragments of some profane 
sanctuary — shall these affect so deeply the heart ? and shall 
the moral ruin, the spiritual decay, the symptoms of eternal 
perdition — shall these vestiges of desolation excite no feel- 
ing in our bosoms ? .And where is a ruin to be found so 
mournful, and so complete, as that which the moral aspect 
of Judah now presents to our view ? 



LESSON LXXX. 



The Injiuence of Devotional Habits and Feelings, happy at 
all Times. — Wellbeloved. 

In every age, and in every condition of life, the influence 
of devotion is highly needful and important. The adoration 
of the great Source of all enjoyment, by whose providence 
all exist, and from whose goodness all derive the comfort of 
their existence, is an employment worthy of the human 
faculties, reasonable in itself, and productive of the most 
excellent dispositions. 

In the day of prosperity, what more natural or becoming, 
than the language of praise at the throne of God ? in the 
hour of adversity, what more suitable or consoling, than the 
expression of confidence in the divine governnient, and the 



148 NATIONAL READER. 

wish that devotion breathes, " Father, not my will, but thine, 
be done ?" in the whole conduct of life, in all the events of 
this ever-varying scene, what more likely to keep the mind 
in a calm and tranquil state, or to render the present moral 
discipline efficacious in preparing us for future eminence and 
glory, than the habit of devout intercourse with the great 
Father of our spirits ? 

A practice so excellent in maturer life, is recommended 
to youth by reasons peculiarly forcible. Piety, a crown of 
glory to the hoary head, is an ornament of peculiar beauty 
upon that which has not seen many years. It is the lan- 
gTiage of the most absurd and fatal folly, that religion and 
its duties are not suited to the innocent gayety of youth ; 
that devotion belongs to those only, who have passed that 
period ; and that it will be sufficient to think of prepar- 
ing for a future state, when we begin to lose our relish for 
the present. 

Such sentiments as these are not, I hope, adopted by any 
of those young persons, to whom I address myself. The 
reverse are such as they ought to maintain ; such as, alone, 
are worthy of a rational mind. Is it reasonable, my young 
friends, that, living as you do upon the bounty of Provi- 
dence, you should feel no gratitude, nor express any thank- 
fulness for its bounties ? that, dependant as you are upon God 
for life, and health, and all things, you should live without 
any regard for your unceasing Benefactor, and think your- 
selves improperly employed when celebrating his praise ? 

Are you insensible of the value of kind relations, judicious 
friends, and wise instructers ; of bodily strength and activity ; 
of cheerfulness of mind ; of all the numberless means, by 
which life is not only supported, but rendered happy ? Is 
it possible that you should not see and feel the ingratitude 
of employing your best days, and your most vigorous pow- 
ers, without one thought of God ; and of contenting your- 
selves with the resolution of devoting to his service the im- 
becility of old age ? 

With so many monuments of death around you ; with so 
many awful warnings of the uncertainty of life, even at 
your period of it ; is it not the height of presumption and 
folly, to defer the formation of a religious and devotional 
temper to a period, which, it is probable, or at least possible, 
may never arrive ? 

Have you seen so little of life, as not to know, that the 



NATIONAL READER. - 149 

feeling and conduct of maturer years, and of old age, are al- 
most invariably marked by the character which distinguished 
the youth ; that the man, who neglected God and religious 
duties when young, becomes more averse from them as he 
advances in life, and leaves the world with the same irreli- 
gious temper with which he entered upon it ; unimproved 
by the events that have happened to him, bearing no simili- 
tude to God, without the favour of his friendship, and unpre- 
pared for the joys of his presence ? Or, is this the envied 
character you desire to form ? is this the happy end to which 
you aspire ? is such the life you wish to lead ? or such the 
death you hope to die ? 

My young friends, let not any evil suggestions enslave 
you, and prevent you from pursuing that conduct, which rea- 
son and Scripture pronounce to be honourable and safe. If 
it be an awful thing to die without hope of future happiness, 
it is an awful thing to live every moment liable to death, 
without those dispositions, which, by the wise appointment 
of Almighty God, are necessary to obtain the blessedness of 
the world to come. 



LESSON LXXXI. 

The SeasoTis. — Mrs. Barbatjld. 




Who may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid, 
In light-green robe with careless ease arrayed ? 
Her head is with a flowery garland crowned, 
And where she treads, fresh flowerets spring around. 
Her genial breath dissolves the gathered snow ; 
Loosed from their icy chains the rivers flow ; 
At sight of her the lambkins bound along. 
And each glad warbler trills his sweetest song ; 
Their mates they choose, their breasts with love are filled, 
And all prepare their mossy nests to build. 
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare 
The name and lineage of this smiling fair. 

Who from the south is this, with lingering tread 
Advancing, in transparent garments clad ? 
Her breath is hot and sultry : now she loves 
To seek the inmost shelter of the groves ; 
The crystal brooks she seeks, and limpid streams, 
To quench the heat that preys upon her limbs. 
13=^ 



150 NATIONAL READER. 

From her the brooks and wandering rivulets fly ; 
At her approach their currents quickly dry. 
Berries and every acid fruit she sips, 
To allay the fervour of her parching lips ; 
Apples and melons, and the cherry's juice, 
She loves, which orchards plenteously produce. 
The sunburnt hay-makers, the swain who shears 
The flocks, still hail the maid when she appears. 
At her approach, O be it mine to lie 
Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply ; 
Or with her let me rove at early morn. 
When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn ; 
Or, at soft twilight, when the flocks repose, 
And the bright star of evening mildly glows. 
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare 
The name and lineage of this blooming fair. 

Who may he be that next, with sober pace, 
Comes stealing on us ? Sallow is his face ; 
The grape's red blood distains his robes around ; 
His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound ; 
His hair hath just begun to fall away. 
The auburn blending with the mournful gray. 
The ripe brown nuts he scatters to the swain ; 
He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train : 
The gun is heard ; the trembling partridge bleeds ; 
The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds. 
Who is he with the wheaten sheaf? Declare, 
If ye can tell, ye youths and maidens fair. 

Who is he from the north that speeds his way ? 
Thick furs and wool compose his warm array : 
His cloak is closely folded ; bald his head ; 
His beard of clear sharp icicles is made. 
By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs ; 
With skait-bound feet the frozen lakes he skims. 
When he is by, with breath so piercing cold, 
No floweret dares its tender buds unfold. 
Nought can his powerful freezing touch withstand ; 
And, should he smite you with his chilling hand, 
Your stiffened form would on his snows be cast. 
Or stand, like marble, pale and breathless as he passed. 
Ye youths and maidens, does he yet appear ? 
Fast he approaches, and will soon be here. 
Declare, I pray you, tell me, if ye can, 
The name and lineage of this aged man. 



NATIONAL READER. 151 

LESSON LXXXII. 

, March.— Bryant. 

The stormy March is come at last, 

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies : 

I hear the rushing of the blast. 

That through the snowy valley flies. 

Ah ! passing few are they who speak. 
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee ; 

Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, 
Thou art a welcome month to me. 

For thou to northern lands again, 

The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 

And thou hast joined the gentle train, 
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. 

And, in thy reign of blast and storm, 
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, 

When the changed winds are soft and warm, 
And heaven puts on the blue of May. 

Then sing aloud the gushing rills 

And the full springs, from frost set free, 

That, brightly leaping down the hills, 
Are just set out to meet the sea. 

The year's departing beauty hides 

Of wintry storms the sullen threat ; 
But, in thy sternest frown, abides 

A look of kindly promise yet. 

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, 

And that soft time of sunny showers. 
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 

Seems of a brighter world than ours. 



152 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON LXXXm. 

April. — Longfellow. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well. 
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming-in of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives : 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold. 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes through the pleasant woods, and coloured wings 
Are glancing in the golden sun, along 

The forest openings. 

And when bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And when the day is gone. 
In the blue lake, the sky, o'erreaching far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw. 
And the fair trees look over, side by side, 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet April, many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought. 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 




NATIONAL READER. 153 

LESSON LXXXIV. 

May. — J. G. Percival. 

I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; 

The winds, that fan the flowers, 
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, 
Tell of serener hours, — 
Of hours that glide unfelt away 
Beneath the sky of May. 

The spirit of the gentle south- wind calls 

From his blue throne of air, 
And Avhere his whispering voice in music falls, 
Beauty is budding there ; 
The bright ones of the valley break 
Their slumbers, and awake. 

The waving verdure rolls along the plain, 

And the wide forest weaves, 
To welcome back its playful mates again. 
A canopy of leaves ; 
And, from its darkening shadow, floats 
A gush of trembling notes. 

Pcvlror aiitt Drignter spreads the reign of May ; 

The tresses of the woods, 
With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; 
And the full-brimming floods. 
As gladly to their goal they run, 
Hail the returning sun. 



LESSON LXXXV. 

The Voice of Spring. — ^Mrs. Hem'ans. 

I come, I come !— ye have called me long, — 
I come o'er the mountains Avith light and sons' ! 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth. 



154 NATIONAL READER. 

By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the South, and the chesnut-flowers, 
By thousands, have burst from the forest-bowers, 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. 
— But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom. 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, 

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth. 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 

And the rein -deer bounds through the pasture free, 

And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 

And the moss looks bright where my step has been. 

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh. 
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime. 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes. 
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ; 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main. 
They are flashing down from the mouniam-ijiu«-o, 
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs, 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves. 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. 

Come forth, ye children of gladness, come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly. 
With the lyre, and the Avreath, and the joyous lay : 
Come forth to the sunshine : I may not stay ! 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen ; 
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth. 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ; 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 






NATIONAL READER. 155 

But ye ! — ^ye are changed since ye met me last ; 
A shade of earth has been round you cast ! 
There is that come over your brow and eye 
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die ! 
Ye smile ! — ^but your smile hath a dimness yet — 
— Oh ! what have ye looked on since last we met ? 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not here 
All whom I saw in the vanished year ! 
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, 
Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light ; 
There Avere eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay. 

There were steps, that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 

As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 

There vv'ere voices that rung through the sapphire sky, 

And had not a sound of mortality ! 

— Are they gone? — is their mirth from the green hills passed? 

— Ye have looked on Death since ye met me last ! 

I know whence the shadow comes o'er ye now : 
Ye have strown the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to Earth's embrace ; 
She hath taken the fairest of Beauty's race ! 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, 
They are gone from amongst you in silence down ! 

They are gone from amongst you, the bright and fair; 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
— But I know of a world where there falls no blight : 
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! — 
Where Death, 'midst the blooms of the morn, may dwell, 
I tarry no longer : — farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne : 

Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 

For me, I depart to a brighter shore : 

Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more. 

I go where the loved, who have left you, dwell, 

And the flowers are not Death's : — fare ye well, farewell ! 



156 NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON LXXXVI. 

Folly of deferring, to a Future Time, the Religious Duties 
of the Present. — -Wellbeloved. 

There are few young persons so careless and indifferent, 
as not occasionally to look forward to the time when they 
shall become devout. However they may neglect God, and 
disregard the duties of religion at present, they hope to serve 
and obey God, and to live virtuously, before they die. 

Alas ! they reflect not, that, by a continuance in evil 
practices, they render it almost impossible that they should-^ 
attain to any love of virtue; that, by forming habits incon- 
sistent with piety, in the early period of their lives, they 
expose themselves to the almost certain hazard of never 
acquiring one pious sentiment, how protracted soever their 
existence in the present world. 

Be careful, I entreat you, my young friends, not to indulge 
such fallacious hopes. To whatever you now devote your- 
selves, to that you will, most probably, continue to adhere to 
the last hour. Your future pursuits may be in some respejcts 
altered, but they will never be totally changed. A vicious 
youth almost invariably becomes a vicious man ; and they 
whose declining years are dignified by virtue and piety, 
are, for the most part, those who sought wisdom early and 
found her. 

We are the creatures of habit ; and, if we wish to be 
found, in old age, proceeding in the paths of wisdom and 
virtue, we must yield ourselves to the counsels of religion 
in the days of our youth. It is both the safest and the. 
easiest way to form no habits which you propose hereafter 
to break ; to cherish no dispositions which you hope, when 
time has confirmed them, to relinquish; to gain a fondness 
for no practices which you know will, if not abandoned, dis- 
qualify you for the happiness of a future state. 

If you cannot resolve to be pious now, how can you hope 
for the resolution hereafter? If passion exerts so strong an 
influence at present, how can you expect that long indul- 
gence will lessen its power ? If you neglect to form habits 
of virtue, when every thing invites and assists you in this 
important work, how can you trust to that period, when, to 
the labour and difficulty of acquiring new principles, will 
be added that of undoing all that the former years of your 
lives have effected ? 



NATIONAL READER. 157 

A moment's reflection will show you, that the attainment 
of pious affections in old age, after a long pursuit of folly, 
must require nothing less than an entire change of disposi- 
tions and of conduct, a complete regeneration of the mind 
and character. Old things must pass away, and all things 
become new. From reflecting, turn yourselves to the ex- 
perience of mankind, and observe how . few are capable of 
the exertion so necessary in this momentous concern. 

" Remember, then, your Creator, in the days of your youth, 
while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, in 
which," disturbed by reflections upon the past, oppressed by 
the consciousness of your inability to relinquish what you 
disapprove, and alarmed at the prospect of futurity, "ye shall 
say. We have no pleasure in them." 

It is an error, top commonly prevalent, that the duties of 
piety are inconsistent with the enjoyment of youth, and that 
they tend to damp, if not extinguish, the vivacity which 
adorns that season of life. You will perhaps be told, that 
devotion is not required in you ; that it will serve only to 
render you gloomy, disqualify you for the society of those 
who are young like yourselves, and render you a fit com- 
panion for those only, who have forgotten the days of former 
years, and have arrived at the verge of the grave. 

Be not influenced by such assertions; make the experiment 
for yourselves ; and, if you do not find that the ways of piety 
are the only ways of pleasantness, and her paths the only 
paths of peace, I ask you not to walk in them: if the service 
of God do not yield you the only rational and pure pleasure, 
I will cease from advising you to avoid the debasing slavery 
of sin. 

That devotion will interfere with the pursuits which young 
persons sometimes follow, and prohibit the pleasures in 
which they are too frequently seen to indulge, I will not deny. 
Yes, my young friends, if you will be virtuous and devout, 
you must refrain from all those pleasures which end in pain; 
you must abandon all those pursuits which lead to disgrace 
and ruin; you must apply to other sources of gratification 
than those, which, however sweet to the taste, contain a 
deadly poison; you must fly the society of those "whose 
feet go down to death, whose steps take hold on hell;" and 
often send your thoughts to that land of promise, where all 
the wise and virtuous shall enjoy inconceivable and uninter- 
rupted happiness. 

Are these requisitions unreasonable ? are these injunc- 
14 



158 NATIONAL READER. 

tions oppressive ? will these destroy your innocent gayety, or 
render you gloomy and austere ? The most thoughtless and 
inexperienced will acknowledge, that no joys but such as 
are innocent can be pure and lasting ; and piety requires . of 
you no more, than that you indulge not in those that are 
impure and deceitful. 

The peculiar enjoyment of youth arises from innocence,' 
inexperience in the vicissitudes and trials of life, and ardent 
hope. Devotion, therefore, will increase your enjoyment, in- 
stead of lessening it, by rendering you secure against temp- 
tations, assuring you of the favour and friendship of God, 
encouraging you to contemplate, Avith satisfaction and with 
pleasure, whatever his providence shall reserve for you in 
future ; and, above all, by giving a wider scope for your ex- 
pectations to range in, — by opening before you the eternal 
abodes of the wise and the good. 



LESSON LXXXVII. 

Religion the best Preparation for the Duties oflAfe. — Norton. 

The interest which we feel in the young should direct our 
attention to all those means, by which their virtue and hap- 
piness may be secured, and by which they may be saved, as 
far as possible, from the evils that are in the world. The 
w^orst sufferings, to which they are exposed, are those which 
may be avoided ; for they are those which we bring upon 
ourselves. 

The best preparation, which we can give them, for meet- 
ing the trials, and performing the duties, of life, is religious 
principle. Through the influence of this only can a charac- 
ter be formed, which will lead one to act, and suffer, and re- 
sist, msely and honourably, in every situation. This only 
can deliver man from the power of the world, and secure him 
from becoming the slave of circumstances and accidents. 

The essential truths of religion are those truths, which 
we know concerning God ; and concerning ourselves, con- 
sidered as immortal beings. It is religion which teaches 
us what we are, and on whom we depend ; and which, 
widening immeasurably our sphere of view, discovers to us 
by far the most important of our relations, — those which 
connect us with God, and with eternity. It is little to say 



-jt^-- .-- -a555^S^<" 



NATIONAL READER. 159 

that it is the most sublime, it is the most practical, of all 
sciences. =?? w ^ ^ 

The foundation of all true religion is a belief of the ex- 
istence and perfections of God. We must conceive of him, 
and represent him to the young, as the Maker and Preserver 
of all things ; as a being on whom the whole creation is 
entirely and continually dependent ; who is every where 
invisibly present, and knows all our thoughts and actions ; 
from whom we receive all that we enjoy ; to whom we must 
look for all that we hope ; who is our constant Benefactor, 
our Father in Heaven. 

The feelings toward him, which should be first formed 
and cultivated in the minds of the young, are those of grati- 
tude, love, and reverence. In endeavouring to impress them 
with these sentiments toward God, we ought to take advan- 
tage of those occasions when they are most cheerful and 
satisfied with themselves. It is then that his idea is to be 
presented to their minds. Should they be touched by the 
beauty or sublimity of nature, we may then endeavour to 
give them some just conceptions of that infinite Spirit, 
whose agency is displaying itself on every side, and of 
whose presence all visible forms are the marks and sjTnbols. 

When we teach them something respecting the immensity 
of the universe ; that the .portion of this earth with which 
they are acquainted, is only a very small part of an immense 
globe, forever wheeling through void space ; that this globe 
is but an inconsiderable thing, compared with others that 
are known to us ; that the stars of heaven are a multitude 
of suns, which cannot be numbered, placed at distances 
from each other, which cannot be measured ; we may then 
direct their thoughts to that Power, by whom this illimitable 
universe was created, and is kept in motion, and who super- 
intends all the concerns of every individual in every one of 
these myriads of worlds. 

When we point out to them any of the admirable contri- 
vances of nature, w^hich appear around us in such inex- 
haustible profusion and variety, so that we tread them with- 
out thought under our feet ; when we explain to them, that 
each of the countless insects of a summer's day is a miracle 
of curious mechanism ; we can hardly avoid telling them 
by whose wisdom these contrivances were formed, and by 
whose goodness their benevolent purposes were designed. 

When their hearts are opened by gladness, and their feel- 
ings spread themselves out to find objects to which to cling; 



160 NATIONAL READER. ^ 

you may then*, by a word or two, direct their thoughts to 
God as their Benefactor. When the occasion is of impor- 
tance enough to give propriety to the introduction of religious 
ideas, you may lead them in their sorrows to the consolation 
and hope which a belief in him affords. 

You may thus do what is in your power to enthrone the 
idea of God in their minds, so that all the thoughts and 
affections shall pay homage to it. You may thus do what 
is in your power toward forming that temper of habitual 
devotion, to which God is continually revealing himself in 
his works, and in his providence. You may thus give the 
first impulse to those feelings of love, reverence, and trust, 
which connect a good man so strongly with God, that, if it 
were possible for him to be deprived of the belief of his ex- 
istence, it would be with the same feeling of horror, with 
which he would see the sun darkening and- disappearing 
from the heavens. 



LESSON LXXXVIII. 



The Young, of every Rank, entitled to Education. — 

Greenwood. 

The benefits of education should be extended to all chil- 
dren, without exception. They never have been denied to 
those who are born to rank and wealth, or even to a corrlpe- 
tency and mediocrity of estate, except till very lately, and, 
in some respects, in the case of the female sex. But, even 
at this enlightened day, it is not entirely a superfiuous task 
to vindicate the claims of the offspring of the poor, of the 
poorest, of the vilest, to that mental cultivation, which it is 
in the power of every community to bestow. 

That old notion is not yet stowed away among the forgotten 
rubbish of old times, that those, who were born to labour and 
servitude, were born for nothing but labour and servitude, and 
that, the less they knew, the better they would obey, and 
that the only instruction, which was necessary or safe for 
them, was that which would teach them to move, like auto^ 
matons, precisely as those above them pulled the strings. 
I say, we still hear this principle asserted, though perhaps 
in more guarded and indefinite language ; and a more self- 
ish, pernicious, disgraceful principle, in whatever terms it 
maybe muffled up, never insulted human nature, nor degraded 



-^ - ,^^m^^^^m^^-^i!..\ ., ^n 



NATIONAL READER. ^ 161 

human society. It is the leading principle of despotism, 
the worst feature of aristocracy, and a profane contradiction 
of that indubitable Word, which has pronounced all men to 
be brethren, and, in every thing which relates to their com- 
mon nature, equal. 

In short, it is only to the domestic animals, to the brutes 
that God has given for our use, that this principle can with 
justice be applied. Their education is not to be carried be- 
yond obedience, because their faculties will not authorize a 
more liberal discipline. We are to feed them well, and use 
them gently, and our duty toward them is performed. But, 
to say that this is the extent of our obligations toward any 
class or description of our fellow beings, is to advance the 
monstrous proposition, that their capacity is as low as their 
circumstantial situation, and their degree among those who 
bear the yoke, and eat the grass of the field. 

But the truth is, that the minds of any one class are as 
improvable as the minds of any other class of men, and may 
therefore be improved in the same way, by the same means, 
and to as good purposes. Once grant that all human beings 
have the same human faculties, and you grant, to all, the 
complete right of the unlimited cultivation of those facul- 
ties. Nor is it at all more rational to suppose, that a judi- 
cious education of the poor, conducted to any attainable 
extent, will be liable to abuse in their hands, and lead them 
to forget their station and their duty, than that it will have 
similar effects on those who are nourished on the lap of 
affluence. The experience, that has been collected on this 
point, only strengthens the deductions of analogy, and con- 
firms the important position, v/hich has hitherto gained too 
little practical faith in the world, that, the more a people 
know, the less exposed they are to every description of 
extravagance. , . ^ ^ =3? ^ 

Wherever there is an unimproved mind, there is an un- 
known amount of lost usefulness and dormant energy. If 
this is so through the negligence or perversity of the indi- 
vidual, with him is the guilt, and with him be the punish- 
ment ; but if it is so through the influence^ of sentiments 
which are current in society, the fearful responsibility rests 
with those who avow and maintain them. I see not why 
the man who would repress, and who does repress, as far as 
in him lies, the moral and intellectual capabilities of a fel- 
low creature, is not as culpable as if he abused and destroyed 
his own. 

14=^ 



m^^^tf^ I ■■ '^^•^B^iP' 



162 NATIONAL READER. 

I have said, that even the children of the vilest and lowest 
portion of the community share in the general right to the 
advantages of education. Their claim possesses a peculiar 
title to our consideration. Some have spoken, as if such 
were beyond or beneath our assistance, and would bring 
contamination from their birth-place. Their lot is in the 
region of irreclaimable wickedness, it is said ; and as their 
parents are, so are they destined to become. 

Destined ! and so they are, if you will not save them. 
They are destined, and forever chained down, to a state of 
moral loathsomeness, in which degradation seems to be 
swallowed with the food, and vice breathed in with the air. 
And shall they stay in such a pit of darkness ? Is not their 
situation the strongest possible appeal, which can be made 
to your pity, and your generosity, and your sense of justice, 
and your love of good ? Does it not call on you, most loud- 
ly and imperatively, to pluck these brands from the burning, 
ere yet they have been scorched too deeply and darkly by the 
flame ? 

Nothing is more probable, than that such children may be 
preserved to virtue by a timely interference ; nothing is 
more certain, than that they will be lost, if^ they remain. I 
know of no case, which promises such ample success and 
reward to the spirited efforts of benevolence, as this. Vice 
may be cut off, in a great measure, of her natural increase, 
by the adoption of her offspring into the family of virtue ; 
and, though it is true, that the empire of guilt receives con- 
stant emigrations and fresh accessions of strength, from all 
the regions of society, yet it is equally as true, that they, 
whose only crime it is that they were born within its con'- 
fines, may be snatched away, and taught another allegiance, 
before they have become familiar with its language, its cus- 
toms, and its corruptions, and have vowed a dreadful fidelity 
to its laws. 



LESSON LXXXIX. 



Childhood and Manhood — an Apologue. — Crabbe. 
" Men are but children of a larger growth.' ' 

'TwAs eight o'clock, and near the fire 

My ruddy little boy was seated, 
And with the title of a sire 

My ears expected to be greeted : — 



NATIONAL READER. 163 

But vain the thought : by sleep oppressed, 

No father there the child descried ; 
His head reclined upon his breast, 

Or, nodding, rolled from side to side. 

"' Let this young rogue be sent to bed" — 

Nought further had I time to say, 
When the poor urchin raised his head 

To beg that he might longer stay. 
Refused, towards rest his steps he bent, 

With tearful eye and aching heart ; 
But claimed his playthings ere he went. 

And took up stairs his horse and cart. 

For new delay, though oft denied. 

He pleaded ; wildly craved the boon : 
Though past his usual hour, he cried 

At being sent away so soon. 
If stern to him, his gTief I shared ; 
, (Unmoved who hears his offspring weep ?) 
Of soothing him I half despaired ; 

But soon his cares were lost in sleep. 

"Alas ! poor infant!" I exclaimed, 

" Thy father blushes now to scan, 
In all which he so lately blamed, 

The follies and the fears of man. 
The vain regret, the anguish brief. 

Which thou hast known, sent up to bed, 
Portrays of man the idle grief, 

When doomed to slumber with the dead." 

And more I thought, when, up the stairs, 

With " longing, lingering looks," he crepi, 
To mark of man the childish cares. 

His playthings carefully he kept. 
Thus mortals, on life's later stage. 

When nature claims their forfeit breath, , 
Still grasp at wealth in pain and age, 

And cling to golden toys in death. 

^Tis morn ; and see, my smiling boy 

Awakes to hail returning light, — 
To fearless laughter — ^boundless joy, — 

Forgot the tears of yesternight. 



I. 1... IIJ» ■ 



164 NATIONAL READER. 

Thus shall not man forget his wo ? 

Survive of age and death the gloom ? 
Smile at the cares he knew below ? 

And, renovated, burst the tomb ? 

0, my Creator ! when thy will 

Shall stretch this frame on earth's cold bed, 
Let that blest hope sustain me still, • 

Till thought, sense, memory — all are fled. 
And, grateful for what thou may'st give, 

No tear shall dim my fading eye, 
That 'twas thy pleasure I should live, 

That 'tis thy mandate bids me die. 



LESSON XC. . 

The Skies. — Bryant. 

Ay, gloriously thou standest there, 
Beautiful, boundless firmament ! 

That, swelling wide o'er earth and air, 
And round the horizon bent, 

With that bright vault and sapphire wall. 

Dost overhang and circle all. 

Far, far below thee, tall gray trees 
Arise, and piles built up of old, 

And hills, whose ancient summits freeze 
In the fierce light and cold. 

The eagle soars his utmost height ; 

Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. 

Thou hast thy frowns : with thee, on high, 
The storm has made his airy seat : 

Beyond thy soft blue curtain lie 
His stores of hail and sleet : 

Thence the consuming lightnings break ; 

There the strong hurricanes awake. 

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles — 

Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern 

Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, 
A song at their return : 




NATIONAL READER. 165 

The glory that comes down from thee 
Bathes in deep joy the land and sea. 

The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine, 

The pomp that brings and shuts the day, 

The clouds that round him change and shine, 
The airs that fan his way. 

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there 

The meek moon wallcs the silent air. 

The sunny Italy may boast 

The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 

May thy blue pillars rise : — 
I only know how fair they stand 
About my own beloved land. 

And they are fair : a charm is theirs, 

That earth — the proud, green earth — has not, 

With all the hues, and forms, and airs. 
That haunt her sweetest spot. 

We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, 

And read of heaven's eternal year. 

Oh ! when, amid the throng of men. 
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 

How willingly we turn us, then. 
Away from this cold earth, 

And look into thy azure breast, 

For seats of innocence and rest ! 




LESSON XCI. 

Address to the Stars. — New Monthly Magazine. 

Ye are fair, ye are fair ; and your pensive rays 
Steal down like the light of parted days ; 
But have sin and sorrow ne'er wandered o'er 
The green abodes of each sunny shore ? 
Hath no frost been there, and no withering blast. 
Cold, cold, o'er the flower and the forest, passed ? 



J^m' 



^'^"nm 



« 



166 NATIONAL READER. 

Does the playful leaf never fall nor fade ? 

The rose ne'er droop in the silent shade ? 

Say, comes there no cloud on your morning beam ? 

On your night of beauty no troubled dream ? 

Have ye no tear the eye to annoy ? 

No grief to shadow its light of joy ? 

No bleeding breasts, that are doomed to part ? 

No blighted bower, and no broken heart ? 

Hath death ne'er saddened your scenes of bloom ? 

Have your suns ne'er shone on the silent tomb ? 

Did their sportive radiance never fall 

On the cypress tree or the ruined wall ? — 

*Twere vain to guess ; for no eye hath seen 

O'er the gulf eternally fixed between. 

We hear not the song of your early hours ; 

We hear not the hymn of your evening bowers. 

The strains that gladden each radiant sphere 

Ne'er poured their sweets on a mortal ear ; 

Though such I could deem, on the evening's sigh, 

The air-harp's unearthly melody ! 

Farewell, farewell ! I go to my rest ; 
For the shades are passing into the west, 
And the beacon pales on its lonely height. 
Isles of the blessed, good-night, good-night ! 



LESSON XCII. 



Song of the Stars. — Bryant. 

When the radiant morn of creation broke, 
And the Avorld in the smile of God aAvoke, 
And the empty realms of darkness and death 
Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, 
And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame. 
From the void abyss, by myriads came, 
In the joy of youth, as they darted away, 
Through the widening wastes of space to play. 
Their silver voices in chorus rung ; 
And this was the song the bright ones sung : — 

" Away, away ! through the wide, wide sky, — 
The fair blue fields that before us lie, — 



NATIONAL READER. 167 

Each sun, with the worlds that round us roll, 
Each planet, poised on her turning pole. 
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white. 
And her waters that lie like fluid light. 

" For the Source of glory uncovers his face, ' . 

And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space ; 
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides 
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides. 
Lo, yonder the living splendors play : 
Awa}^, on our joyous path away ! 

" Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, 
In the infinite azure, star after star. 
How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass ! 
How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ! 
And the path of the gentle winds is seen. 
Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. 

" And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, 
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; 
And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues, 
Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews ; 
And, 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground. 
With her shado^vy cone, the night goes round ! 

" Away, away ! — in our blossoming bowers. 
In the soft air, wrapping these spheres of ours, 
In the seas and fountains that shine with mom. 
See, love is brooding, and life is born. 
And breathing myriads are breaking from night, 
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. 

" Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, 
To weave the dance that measures the years. 
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent 
To the farthest wall of the firmament, — 
The boundless visible smile of Him, 
To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim." 






»f 



163^ NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON XCIII. 

The Bells of St. Mary^s, Limerick. — London Literary 

Gazette. 

" Those evening bells — those evening bells !" 

Moore's National Melodies. 

There is a delight, which those only can appreciate who 
Have felt it, in recalling to one's mind, when cast by fortune 
upon a strange soil and among strangers, the sights and 
sounds which were familiar to one's infant days. It is plea- 
sant, too, though, perhaps, like the praise of one's own friend, 
rather obtrusive, to snatch those memories from their rest, 
and give them to other ears, — to tinge them with an inte- 
rest, and bid them live again. When we perceive, likewise, 
that places and circumstances of real beauty and curiosity 
remain neglected and unknown, for want of " some tongue 
to give their worthiness a voice," there is a gratification 
to our human pride in the effort to procure them, even for a 
space, 

A foiled residence 'gainst the tooth of time 
And razure of oblivion. 

I shall not, in this letter, as in my last, give any thing 
characteristic — any thing L'ish. I w^ill be dull rather than 
descend from the elevation I intend to keep ; but, in com- 
pensation, I will tell you a fine old story ; and, if you have 
but the slightest mingling of poetical feeling in your com- 
position, (and who is there now-a-days that will not pretend 
to some ?) I promise myself that you shall not be disap- 
pointed. 

The city of Limerick, though surrounded by some very 
tolerable demesnes, "^ is sadly deficient in one respect, — 
not an unimportant one in any large town; — there is no 
public walk of any consequence immediately adjoining it. 
The canal which leads to Dublin is bleak, from its want of 
trees ; and unhealthy, from the low marshy champaign,! 
which lies on either side its banks. =^ # =j^ =^ 

But, at the head of this canal, where it divides itself into 
two branches, which, gradually widening and throwing oft' 
their artificial appearance, form a glittering circlet around a 
small island, which is covered with water shrubs — on this 
spot I have delightedly reposed in many a sweet sunset, — 

* Pron. demains'. t Pron. sham'pane. 



NATIONAL READER.^ 169 

when I loved to seek a glimpse of inspiration in such scenes, 
to imitate Moore's poetry, and throw rhymes together, about 
the rills and hills, streams and beams, and even and heaven, 
and fancy I was a genius ! — " 'Tis gone — 'tis gone — 'tis 
gone !" as old Capulet says. 

But let us recall it for a moment. Have the com'plaisance 
to indulge me in a day-dream, and fancy, if you can, that 
you sit beside me on the bank. We are beyond the hearing 
of the turmoil and bustle of the town ; " the city's voice 
itself is soft, like solitude's ;" and there is a hush around 
us that is delightful — the beautiful repose of the evening. 
The sun, that, but a few minutes since, rushed down the west 
with the speed of a wandering star, pauses, ere he shall set, 
upon the very verge of the horizon, and smiles upon his own 
handiwork — the creation of his fostering fervour. 

Hark ! one sound alone reaches us here ; and how grand, 
and solemn, and harmonious, in its monotony ! These are 
the great bells of St. Mary's. Their deep-toned vibrations 
undulate so as to produce a sensible effect on the air around 
us. The peculiar fineness of the sound has been often re- 
marked ; but there is an old story connected with their his- 
tory, which, whenever I hear them ring out over the silent 
city, gives a something more than harmony to the peal. I 
shall merely say, that what I am about to relate is told as a 
real occurrence ; and I consider it so touchingly poetical in 
itself, that I shall not dare to supply a fictitious name, and 
fictitious circumstances, where I have been unable to procure 
the actual ones. 

They were originally brought from Italy ; they had been 
manufactured by a young native (whose name the tradition 
has not preserved,) and finished after the toil of many years ; 
and he prided himself upon his work. They were conse- 
quently purchased by the prior of a neighbouring convent ; 
and, with the profits of this sale, the young Italian procured 
a little villa, where he had the pleasure of hearing the tolling 
of his bells from the convent cliff, and of growing old in the 
bosom of domestic happiness. 

This, however, was not to continue. In some of those 
broils, whether civil or foreign, which are the undying worm 
in the peace of a fallen land, the good Italian was a sufferer 
amongst many. He lost his all ; and, after the passing of 
the storm, found himself preserved alone amid the -wreck 
of fortune, friends, family, and home. The convent, in 
which the bells, the master-pieces of his skill, were hung, 
15 



mmupp 



170 NATIONAL READER. 

was razed to the earth, and these last carried away into 
another land. 

The unfortunate o^vner, haunted by his memories, and 
deserted by his hopes, became a wanderer over Europe. 
His hair grew gray, and his heart withered, before he again 
found a home or a friend. In this desolation of spirit, he 
formed a resolution of seeking the place, to which those 
treasures of his memory had been finally borne. He sailed 
for Ireland ; proceeded up the Shannon ; the vessel anchor- 
ed in the Pool, near Limerick, and he hired a small boat for 
the purpose of landing. 

The city was now before him ; and he beheld St. Majy's 
steeple, lifting its turreted head above the smoke and mist 
of the Old Town. He sat in the stern, and looked fondly 
toward it. It was at evening, so calm and beautiful, as to 
remind him of his own native haven in the sweetest time 
of the year — the death of the spring. The broad stream 
appeared like one smooth mirror, and the little vessel glided 
through it with almost a noiseless expedition. 
- On a sudden, amid the general stillness, the bells tolled 
from the cathedral ; the rowers rested on their oars, and 
the vessel went forward with the impulse it had received. 
The old Italian looked towards the city, crossed his arms 
on his breast, and lay back in his seat. Home, happiness, 
early recollections, friends, family — all were in the sound, 
and went with it to his heart. When the rowers looked 
round, they beheld him with his face still turned toward the 
cathedral ; but his eyes were closed, and, when they land- 
ed — they found him cold ! 

Such are the associations, which the ringing of St. Mary's 
bells brings to my recollection. I do not know how I can 
better conclude this letter than with the little melody, from 
Avhich I have taken the line above. It is a good specimen 
of the peculiar tingling melody of the author's poetry — a 
quality in which he never has been equalled in his own lan- 
guage, nor exceeded in any other : — Why ! you can almost 
fancy you hear them ringing ! — 

" Those evening bells — those evening bells — 
How many a tale their music tells 
Of youth, and home, and native clime, 
When I last heard their sootliing chime. 

" Those pleasant hours have passed away, 
And many a heart, that then was gay, 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 



NATIONAL READER. 171 

" And so 'twill be when I am gone : 
That tuneful peal will still ring on, 
When other bards shall walk those dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells !" 



LESSON XCIV. 



Description of Jerusalem, and the surrounding Country. — 

Letters from the East. 

Although the size of Jerusalem was not extensive, its 
very situation, on the brink of rugged hills, encircled by 
deep and wild valleys, bounded by eminences whose sidea 
were covered with groves and gardens, added to its nume- 
rous towers, and temple, must have given it a singular and 
gloomy magnificence scarcely possessed by any other city in 
the world. 

The most pleasing feature in the scenery around the city 
is the valley of Jehoshaphat. Passing out of the gate of 
St. Stephen, you descend the hill to the torrent of the 
Ked'ron : a bridge leads over its dry and deep bed : it must 
have been a very narrow, though, in winter, a rapid stream. 
On the left is a grotto, handsomely fitted up, and called the 
tomb of the Virgin Mary, though, it is well known, she nei- 
ther died nor was buried near Jerusalem. Being surprised, 
however, on the hills by a long and heavy shower of rain, we 
were glad to take shelter beneath the doorway of this grotto. 

A few steps beyond the Kedron, you come to the garden 
of Gethsem'ane, of all gardens the most interesting and 
hallowed ; but how neglected and decayed ! It is surround- 
ed by a kind of low hedge ; but the soil is bare ; no verdure 
grows on it, save six fine venerable olive-trees, which have 
stood here for many centuries. This spot is at the foot of 
Olivet, and is beautifully situated : you look up and down 
the romantic valley ; close behind rises the mountain ; be- 
fore you are the walls of the devoted city. 

While lingering here, at evening, and solitary, — for it is 
not often a footstep passes by, — that night of sorrow and dis- 
may rushes on the imagination, when the Redeemer was 
betrayed, and forsaken by all, even by the loved disciple. — 
Hence the path winds up the Llount of Olives : it is a beau- 
tiful hill : the words of the Psalmist, " the mountains around 
Jerusalem," must not be literally applied, as none are within 



172 NATIONAL READER. 

view, save those of Arabia. It is verdant, and covered, in 
some parts, with olive-trees. From the summit you enjoy 
an admirable view of the city : it is beneath, and very near ; 
and looks, with its valleys around it, exactly like a panora- 
ma."^ Its noble temple of Omar, and large area planted 
with palms ; its narrow streets, ruinous places, and towers, 
are all laid out before you. 

On the summit are the remains of a church, built by the 
Empress Hel'ena ; and, in a small edifice, containing one 
large and lofty apartment, is shown the print of the last 
footstep of Christ, when he took his leave of earth. The 
fathers should have placed it nearer to Bethany, in order to 
accord with the account given us in Scripture ; but it an- 
swers the purpose of drawing crowds of pilgrims to the spot. 
Descending Olivet to the narrow valley of Jehoshaphat, you 
soon come to the pillar of Absalom : it has a very antique! 
appearance, and is a pleasing object in the valley : it is of a 
yellow stone, adorned with half columns, formed into three 
stages, and terminates in a cupola. 

The tomb of Zacharias, adjoining, is square, with four or 
five pillars, 'and is cut out of the rock. Near these is a sort 
of grotto, hewn out of an elevated part of the rock, with 
four pillars in front, which is said to have been the apostles' 
prison at the time they were confined by the rulers. The 
small and wretched village of Siloa is built on the rugged 
sides of the hill above ; and just here the valleys of Hinnom 
and Jehoshaphat meet, at the south-east corner of Mount 
Zion : they are both sprinkled with olive-trees. 

Over the ravinel^ of Hinnom, and directly opposite the 
city, is the Mount of Judgment, or of Evil Counsel ; because 
there, they say, the rulers took counsel against Christ, and 
the palace of Caiaphas^ stood. It is a broad and barren hill, 
without any of the picturesquell beauty of Olivet, though 
loftier. On its side is pointed out^the Aceldama,ir or field 
where Judas hung himself : a small and rude edifice stands 
on it, and it is used as a burying-place. 

But the most in'teresting portion of this hill, is where its 
rocks descend precipitously into the valley of Hinnom, and 
are mingled with many a straggling olive-tree. All these 
rocks are hewn into sepulchres of various forms and sizes : 
no doubt they were the tombs of Wk ancient Jews, and are 
in general cut with considerable care and skill. They are 
often the resting-place of the benighted passenger. Some 

* Pron. pan-o-ra'-ma — a as in father. t an-teek'. t ra-veen'. 
§ Cay'-a-phas. H pic-tshu-resk'. IF A-sel'-da-ma. 



NATIONAL READER. 173 

of them open into inner apartments, and are provided with 
small windows or ap'ertures cut in the rock. 

In these there is none of the darkness or sadness of the 
tomb ; but in many, so elevated and picturesque is the situa- 
tion, a traveller may pass hours, with a book in his hand, 
while valley and hill are beneath and around him. Before 
the door of one large sepulchre stood a tree on the brink of 
the rock ; the sun was going down on Olivet on the right, 
and the resting-place of the dead commanded a sweeter 
scene than any one of the abodes of the living. 

Many of the tombs have flights of steps leading up to 
them: it was in one of these that a celebrated traveller 
would fix the site of the holy sepulchre : it is certainly 
more picturesque ; but why more just, is hard to conceive ; 
since the words of Scripture do not fix the identity of the 
sacred tomb to any particular spot, and tradition, on so 
memorable an occasion, could hardly err. The fathers de- 
clare, it long since became absolutely necessary to cover the 
native rock with marble, in order to prevent the pilgrims 
from destroying it, in their zeal to carry ofi* pieces to their 
homes ; and on this point their relation may, one would 
suppose, be believed. 

The valley of Hinnom now turns to the west of the city, 
and extends rather beyond the north wall : here the plain 
of Jeremiah commences, and it is the best wooded tract in 
the whole neighbourhood. In this direction, but further on, 
the historian of the siege speaks "of a tower, that afforded 
a prospect of Arabia at sunrising, and of the utmost limits 
of the Hebrew possessions at the sea westward." The 
former is still enjoyed from the city ; but the latter could 
only be had at a much greater distance north, where there is 
no hill in front. 

About half a mile from the wall, are the tombs of the 
kings. In the midst of a hollow, rocky, and adorned with 
a few trees, is the entrance ; you then find a large apartment, 
above fifty feet long, at the side of which a low door, over 
which is a beautiful frieze,"^ leads into a seriest of small 
chambers, in the walls of which are several deep recesses, 
hewn out of the rock, of the size of the human body. There 
are six or seven of these low and dark apartments, one or 
two of which are adorr^^ with vine-leaves and clusters of 
grapes. Many parts ortie stone coffins, beautifully orna- < 

* Pron. freeze. t se'-re-es. 



' ^^1>- * 



174 NATIONAL READER. 

mented in the Saracenic manner, are strewed"^ on the floor : 
it would seem, that some hand of ravage had broken them 
to pieces, with the view of finding something valuable with- 
in. The sepulchres of the judges, so called, are situated in 
a wild spot about two miles from the city. They bear much 
resemblance to those of the kings, but are not so handsome 
or spacious. 

Returning to the foot of the Mount of Olives, you pro- 
ceed up the vale of Jehoshaphat on a line with the plain : 
it widens as you advance, and is more thickly sprinkled with 
olives. When arrived at the hill in which it terminates, the 
appearance of the city and its en'virons is rich and magnifi- 
cent ; and you cannot help thinking, that, w^ere an English 
party suddenly transported here, they would not believe it 
was the sad and dreary Jerusalem they were gazing on. 

This is the finest point to view it from ; for its numerous 
min'arets and superb mosque are seen to great advantage 
over the trees of the plain and valley, and the foreground is 
verdant and cultivated. One or two houses of the Turks 
stood in this spot, and we had trespassed on the rude garden 
of one of them, where the shade of a spreading tree invited 
us to linger over the prospect. For some days there had 
been heavy falls of rain, yet the bed of the Kedron was still 
dry, and has been so, most probably, for many centuries. 

The climate of the city and country is in general very 
healthy. The elevated position of the former, and the nu- 
merous hills which cover the greater part of Palestine, must 
conduce greatly to the purity of the air. One seldom sees a 
country overrun with hills in the manner this is : in general 
they are not in ranges, but more or less is'olated, and of a 
picturesque form. Few of them approach to the character 
of mountains, save Carmel, the Quaranti'na, the shores of 
the lakes, and those which bound the valley of the Jordan. 

To account for the existence of so large a population in 
the promised lands, the numerous hills must have been en- 
tirely cultivated : at present, their appearance, on the sides 
and summits, is, for the most part, bare and rocky. In old 
time, they were probably formed into terraces, as is now 
seen on the few cultivated ones, where the vine, olive, and 
fig-tree flourish. 

On a delightful evening, we rodj^to the wilderness of St. 

John. The mon'astery of that name stands at the entrance : 

\% it is a good and spacious building, and its terrace enjoys a 

t Pron. strowed. 



NATIONAL READER. 175 

fine prospect, in which is the lofty hill of M'odin, with the 
ruins of the palace of the Maccabees on its summit. A 
small village adjoins the convent, in which are shown the 
remains of the house of Elizabeth, where the meeting with 
Mary took place. But few monks reside in the convent, 
which affords excellent accommodations for a traveller. 

At* -^ -^ -^ 

•Ti* •TV- W 'TV- 

In the church, a rich altar is erected on the spot where 
St. John was born, with an inscription over it. The next 
morning we visited the wilderness : it is narrow, partially 
cultivated, and sprinkled with trees ; the hills rise rather 
steep on each side ; from that on the right, a small stream 
flows into the ravine below. The whole appearance of the 
place is romantic ; and the prophet might have resided here, 
while exercising his ministry, w4th very little hardship. 
The neighbourhood still, no doubt, produces excellent honey, 
which is to be had throughout Palestine. 

High up the rocky side of the hill on the left, amidst a 
profusion of trees, is the cave or grotto of St. John. A 
fountain gushes ^ out close b}^ When we talk of wilder- 
nesses, mountains, and plains, in Palestine, it is to be under- 
stood, that they seldom answer to the size of the same ob- 
jects in more extensive countries ; that they sometimes pre- 
sent but a beautiful miniature of them. It certainly deserved 
the term, given by the Psalmist to the city, of being a 
"compact" country. 

The Baptist, in his wild garb, surrounded by an assem- 
blage of various characters, warning them to repentance, in 
this wild spot, must have presented a fine subject for the 
painter. In wandering over the country, we feel persuaded, 
that its very scenery lent wings to the poetical and figurative 
discourses of its prophets and seers. Sublime and diversi- 
fied, it is yet so confined and minute as to admit the deepest 
seclusion in the midst of a numerous population. 

The monks in the convent are of the Catholic order, and 
have the advantage of all their brethren in point of situation 
and comfort ; and yet nothing will induce these Franciscans 
to keep their habitations clean : the Greek and Armenian 
monasteries are palaces compared to them. The fathers are, 
in general, a very ignorant race of men, chiefly from the 
lowest orders of society. Their tables, except during lent, 
are spread plentifully, twice a day, with several dishes of 
meat and wine ; and so well do many of them thrive, that 
they would consider it banishment to be sent home to Eu- 
rope to their friends. 



PV|P«B^ 



176 NATIONAL READER. 

From the east end of the wilderness, you enter the 
famous valley of Elah, where Goli'ah was slain by the 
champion of Israel. It is a pretty and interesting spot ; 
the bottom covered with olive-trees. Its present appearance 
answers exactly to the description given in Scripture ; the 
two hills, on which the armies stood, entirely confining it on 
the right and left. The valley is not above half a mile 
broad. Tradition was not required to identify this spot : 
nature has stamped it with everlasting features of truth. 
The brook still flows through it in a winding course, from 
which David took the smooth stones ; the hills are not pre- 
cipitous, but slope gradually down ; and the vale is varied 
with banks and undulations, and not a single habitation is 
visible in it. "^ "^ "^ ^ 



LESSON XCV. 

The same^ concluded. 



At the south-east of Zion, in the vale of Jehoshaphat, 
they say the gardens of Solomon stood, and also on the sides 
of the hill adjoining that of Olivet. It was not a bad, though 
rather a confined, site for them. The valley here is covered 
with a rich verdure, divided by hedges into a number of 
small gardens. A mean looking village stands on the rocky 
side of the hill above. Not a single palm-tree is to be seen 
in the whole territory around, where once every eminence 
was covered with them. 

The roads leading to the city are bad, except to the north, 
being the route to Damascus ; but the supplies of wood 
and other articles for building the temple, must have come 
by another way than the near and direct one from Jaffa, 
which is impassable for burthens of a large size, from the 
defiles and rocks amidst which it is carried ; the circuitous 
routes by land from Tyre or Acre were probably used. The 
Turk, who is chief of the guard that keeps watch at the 
entrance of the sacred church, waited on us two or three 
times ; he is a very fine and dignified looking man, and 
ensured us entrance at all hours, which permission we avail- 
ed ourselves of, to pass another night amidst its hallowed 
H scenes, with interest and pleasure but little diminished. 

We chose a delightful morning for a walk to Bethany. 



I 



NATIONAL READER, 177 

The path leads up the side of Olivet, by the very way which 
our Saviour is said to have descended in his last entry into 
Jerusalem. At a short distance are the ruins of the village 
of Bethphage ; and, half a mile further, is Bethany. The dis- 
tance is about two miles from the city. The village is beau- 
tifully situated ; and the ruins of the house of Lazarus are 
still shown, and do credit to the good father's taste. 

On the right of the road is the tomb of Lazarus, cut out 
of the rock. Carrying candles, we descended ten or twelve 
stone steps to the bottom of the cave : in the middle of the 
floor is the tomb, a few feet deep, and large enough to admit 
one body only. Several persons can stand conveniently 
in the cave around the tomb, so that Lazarus, when restor- 
ed, did not, as some suppose, descend from a sepulchre cut 
out of the wall, but rose out of the grave, hewn in the floor 
of the grotto. 

The light that enters from above does not find its way to 
the bottom ; the fine painting in the Louvre, of this resur- 
rection, was probably faithful in representing it by torch- 
light. Its identity cannot be doubted : the position of Betha- 
ny could never have been forgotten, and this is the only 
sepulchre in the whole neighbourhood. It is a delightful 
Sunday afternoon's walk to Bethany : after crossing the 
mounts, the path passes along the side of a hill, that looks 
down into a wild and long valley, in which are a few scat- 
tered cottages. The view, just above the village, is very 
magnificent, as it embraces the Dead Sea, the valley and river 
of the Jordan, and its confluence with the lake. 

On the descent of Olivet is shown the spot where Christ 
wept over Jerusalem : tradition could not have selected a 
more suitable spot. Up this ascent David went, when he 
fled from Absalom, weeping. And, did a Jew wish to breathe 
his last where the glory of his land and fallen city should 
meet his departing gaze, he wpuld desire to be laid on the 
summit of the Mount of Olives. 

The condition of the Jews in Palestine is more insecure, 
and exposed to insult and exaction, than in Egypt and Syria, 
from the frequent lawless and oppressive conduct of the 
governors and chiefs. These distant pachalics^ are less 
under the control of the Porte t; and, in Egypt, the subjects 
of Mahmoud enjoy a more equitable and quiet government 
than in any other part of the empire. There is little na- 

*Pron. pS.'-shaw-lics. t The Ottoman government. 



178 NATIONAL READER. 

tional feeling or enthusiasm among them ; though there are 
some exceptions, where these exist in an intense degree. In 
the city, they appear fearful and humhled ; for the contempt 
in which they are held by the Turks is excessive, and they 
often go poorly clad to avoid exciting suspicion. 

Yet it is an interesting sight, to meet with a Jew, wander- 
ing, with his staff in his hand, and a venerable beard sweep- 
ing his bosom, in the rich and silent plain of Jericho, on the 
sides of his native mountains, or on the banks of the ancient 
river Kish'on, where the arm of the mighty was withered in 
the battle of the Lord. Did a spark of the love of his coun- 
try warm his heart, his feelings must be exquisite, — ^but his 
spirit is suited to his condition. 



(C 



LESSON XCVL 



that ye, through his poverty, might he rich,^''- 

W. Russell. 

Low in the dim and sultry west 

Is the fierce sun of Syria's sky ; 
The evening's grateful hour of rest. 

Its hour of feast and joy, is nigh. 

But he, with thirst and hunger spent, 
Lone, by the wayside faintly sinks ; 

A lowly hand the cup hath lent. 

And from the humble well he drinks. 

Ji. -^ A4. -!/- -M- -li- 

■TY- "Tr "7f w •Tf w 

On the dark wave of Galilee 

The gloom of twilight gathers fast, 

And o'er the waters drearily 

Sweeps the bleak evening blast. 

The weary bird hath left the air. 
And sunk into his sheltered rest ; 

The wandering beast hath sought his lair, 
And laid him down to welcome rest. 

Still, near the lake, with weary tread, 
Lingers a form of human kind ; 



NATIONAL READER. 179 

And, from his lone, unsheltered head, 
Flows the chill night-damp on the wind. 

Why seeks not he a home of rest? 

Why seeks not he the pillowed bed? 
Beasts have their dens, the bird its nest ; — 

He hath not where to lay his head ! 



Such was the lot he freely chose. 
To bless, to save, the human race ; 

And, through his poverty, there flows 
A rich, full stream of heavenly grace. 



• 



LESSON XCVII. 

Elijah fed by Ravens. — Grahame. 

Sore was the famine throughout all the bounds 
Of Israel, when Elijah, by command 
Of God, toiled on to Cherith's failing brook. 
No rain-drops fall, no dew-fraught cloud, at morn, 
Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale. 
The withering herbage dies. Among the palms, 
The shrivelled leaves send to the summer gale 
An autumn rustle. No sweet songster's lay 
Is warbled from the branches. Scarce is heard 
The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around, 
And trusts in God, and lays his silvered head 
Upon the flowerless bank. Serene he sleeps. 
Nor wakes till dawning. Then, with hands enclasped, 
And heavenward face, and eye-lids closed, he prays 
To Him who manna on the desert showered, 
To Him who from the rock made fountains gush. 
Entranced the man of God remains ; till, roused 
By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart 
He sees the ravens fearless by his side 
Alight, and leave the heaven-provided food. 



^sm 



180 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON XCVIII. 

Mount Sinai. — Letters from the East. 

Leaving the valley of Paran, the path led over a rocky- 
wilderness, to render which more gloomy, the sky became 
clouded, and a shower of rain fell. By moonlight we as- 
cended the hills, and, after some hours' progress, rested for 
the night on the sand. The dews had fallen heavy for some 
nights, and the clothes that covered us were quite wet in the 
morning; but, as we advanced, the dews ceased. 

Our mode of life, though irregular, was quite to a wander- 
er's taste. We sometimes stopped for an hour, at mid-day, 
or, more frequently, took some bread and a draught of water 
on the camel's back ; but we were repaid for our fatigues, 
when we halted for the evening, as the sun was sinking in 
the desert, and, having taken our supper, strolled amidst the 
solitudes, or spent the hours in conversation till dark. 

But the bivouac^ by night was the most striking, when, 
arriving, fatigued, long after dark, the two fires were light- 
ed. I have frequently retired to some distance to gaze at 
the group of Arabs round theirs, it was so entirely in keep- 
ing. They were sipping their coffee, and talking with ex- 
pressive action and infinite vivacity ; and, as they addressed 
each other, they' often bent over the flame which glanced on 
their white turbans and drapery and dark countenances, and 
the camels stood behind, and stretched their long necks over 
their masters. 

Having finished our repast, we wrapped ourselves in our 
cloaks, and lay down round the fire : and let not that couch 
be pitied ; for it was delightful, as well as romantic, to sink 
to rest as you looked on that calm and glorious sky, the 
stars shining with a brilliancy you have no conception of in 
our climate. Then, in the morning, we were suddenly sum- 
moned to depart, and, the camels being loaded, we were soon 
on the march. Jouma frequently chanted his melancholy 
Arab song,, for at this time we were seldom disposed to con- 
verse, and were frequently obliged to throw a blanket over 
our cloak, and walk for some hours, to guard against the 
chillness of the air. 

The sunsets in Egypt are the finest; but to see a sunrise in 
its glory, you must be in the desert : nothing there obscures 
or obstructs it. You are travelling on, chill and silent, 
*Pron. be-voo-ac; an encampment for a night. 



NATIONAL READER. 181 

your looks bent toward the east ; a variety of glowing hues 
appear and die away again; and, for some time, the sky is 
blue and clear ; when the sun suddenly darts above the hori- 
zon, and such a splendour is thrown instantly on the wide 
expanse of sand and rocks, that, if you were a Persian adorer, 
you would certainly break out, like the muezzin"^ from the 
minaret, in praise and blessing. 

The way now became very interesting, and varied by 
several narrow, deep valleys, where a few stunted palms 
grew. The next morning, we entered a noble desert, lined 
on each side by lofty mountains of rock, many of them per- 
fectly black, with sharp and ragged summits. In the midst 
of the plain, which rose with a continual yet gentle ascent, 
^were isolated rocks of various forms and colours, and over 
its surface were scattered a number of shrubs of a lively 
green. Through all the route, we had met few passengers. 
One or two little caravans, or a lonely wanderer with his 
camel, had passed at times, and given us the usual salute 
of "Peace be unto you." ^ ^ # ^ 

A few hours more we got sight of the mountains round 
Sinai. Their appearance was magnificent ; when we drew 
nearer, and emerged out of a deep pass, the scenery was 
infinitely striking, and, on the right, extended a vast range 
of mountains as far as the eye could reach, from the vicinity 
of Sinai down to Tor. They were perfectly bare, but of 
grand and singular form. We had hoped to reach the con- 
vent by day-light, but the moon had risen some time, when 
we entered the mouth of a narrow pass, where our conduc- 
tors advised us to dismount. 

A gentle yet perpetual ascent, led on, mile after mile, up 
this mournful valley, whose aspect was terrific, yet ever 
varying. It was not above two hundred yards in width, and 
the mountains rose to an immense height on each side. 
The road wound at their feet along the edge of a precipice, 
and amidst masses of rock that had fallen from above. It 
was a toilsome path, generally over stones, placed like steps, 
probably by the Arabs ; and the moonlight was of little ser- 
vice to us in this deep valley, as it only rested on the frown- 
ing summits above. 

Where is Mount Sinai ? was the inquiry of every one. 
The Arabs pointed before to Gabel Mousa, the Mount of 

* Muezzin, — one of a religious order, among' the Mahommedans, whose 
clear and sonorous voice, from the minaret, or steeple of a mosque, answers 
the purpose of a bell, among Christians, to call the people to morning and 
evening prayers. 

16 



1S2 NATIONAL READER. - 

Moses, as it is called, but we could not distingnish it. Again, 
and again, point after point was turned, and we saw but the 
same stern scenery. JBut what had the softness and beauty 
of nature to do here ? Mount Sinai required an approach 
like this, where all seemed to proclaim the land of miracles, 
and to have been visited by the terrors of the Lord. 

The scenes, as you gaze around, had an unearthly charac- 
ter, suited to the sound of the fearful trumpet that was once 
heard there. We entered at last on the more open valley, 
about half a mile wide, and drew near this famous mountain. 
Sinai is not so lofty as some of the mountains around it, and 
in its form there is nothing graceful or peculiar, to distin- 
guish it from others. ^ ^ ^ =^ 

On the third morning we set out early from the convent 
for the summit of Mount Sinai, with two Arab guides. The 
ascent was, for some time, over long and broken flights of 
stone steps, placed there by the Greeks. The path was often 
narrow and steep, and wound through lofty masses of rock 
on each side. In about half an hour, we came to a well of 
excellent water ; a short distance above which is a small, 
ruined chapel. 

About half Way up was a verdant and pleasant spot, in the 
midst of which stood a high and solitary palm, and the rocks 
rose in a small and wild amphitheatre around. We were 
not very long now in reaching the summit, which is of limit- 
ed extent, having two small buildings on it, used formerly 
by the Greek pilgrims, probably for worship. 

But Sinai has four summits ; and that of Moses stands 
almost in the middle of the others, and is not visible from 
below, so that the spot where he received the law must have 
been hid from the view of the multitudes around ; and the 
smoke and flame, which, Scripture saySj enveloped the en- 
tire Mount of Sinai, must have had the more awful appear- 
ance, by reason of its many summits and great extent ; and 
the account delivered gives us reason to imagine, the sum- 
mit or scene where God appeared was shrouded from the 
hosts around. 

But what occasions no small surprise at first, is the scar- 
city of plains, valleys, or open places, where the children 
of Israel could have stood conveniently to behold the glory 
on the mount. From the summit of Sinai you see only in- 
numerable ranges of rocky mountains. One generally pla- 
ces, in imagination, around Sinai, extensive plains, or sandy 
deserts, where the camp of the hosts was placed, where the 



NATIONAL READER. 183 

families of Israel stood at the doors of their tents, and the 
line was drawn round the mountain, which no one might 
break through on pain of death. 

But it is not thus : save the valley by which we approach- 
ed Sinai, about half a mile wide, and a few miles in length, 
and a small plain we afterwards passed through, with a rocky 
hill in the middle, there appear to be few open places around 
the mount. We did not, however, examine it on all sides. 
On putting the question to the superior of the convent, 
where he imagined the Israelites stood ; " Every where," he 
replied, waving his hands about — " in the ravines, the val- 
leys, as well as the plains." 

Having spent an hour here, we descended to the place of 
verdure, and, after resting awhile, took our road, with one of 
the guides, towards the mountain of St. Catharine. The 
rapture of Mr. Wolf's feelings on the top of Sinai was in- 
describable ; I expected to see him take flight for a better 
region. Being the son of a rabbi at Munich, the conviction 
of being on the scene where God visited his people, and con- 
ferred such glory on them, was almost too much for him. 

After ascending again, in another direction, we came 
to a long and steep descent, that commanded a very no- 
ble scene, and reached, at last, a little valley at the bottom, 
that was to be our resting-place for the night. The moun- 
tains rose around this valley in vast precipices : a line of 
beautiful verdure ran along its whole extent, in the midst of 
which stood a deserted mon'astery. The fathers had long 
been driven from it by the Arabs, but its various apartments 
were still entire, and afforded an excellent asylum for a tra- - 
veller. 

This deep solitude had an exceeding and awful beauty : 
the palms, the loftiest I ever saw, rose moveless, and the 
garden and grove were desolate and neglected ; the fountain 
in the latter was now useless, and the channel of the rivulet 
that ran through the valley was quite dry ; the walls were 
in ruins, and the olive, the poplar, and other trees, grew in 
wild luxuriance. 

Within, some old books of devotion were yet left behind. 
Having chosen an apartment in the upper story, which open- 
ed into the corridor, and had been one of the cells of the 
exiled fathers, we took possession of it at night, kindled a 
fire on a large stone in a corner, and made a good supper of 
the rude provisions we had. There needed no spirit of ro- 
mance in order to enjoy the situation exquisitely: feAV ideal 



j i L ' .mm 



184 NATIONAL READER. 

pictures ever equalled the strangeness and savageness of this 
forsaken sanctuary in the retreats of Sinai. 



LESSON XCIX. 

The Summit of Mount Sinai. — Montgomery. 

I SEEK the mountain cleft : alone 
I seem in this sequestered place : — 

Not so : I meet, unseen, yet known, 
My Maker, face to face. 

My heart perceives his presence nigh, 
And hears his voice proclaim, 

While bright his glory passes by, 
His noblest name. 

Love is that name — for " God is Love." 
Here, where, unbuilt by mortal hands — 

Mountains below, and heaven above — 
His awful temple stands, 

I worship. — Lord, though I am dust 
And ashes in thy sight. 

Be thou my strength ; — in thee I trust ; — 
Be thou my light. 

Hither, of old, the Almighty came : 

Clouds were his car, his steeds the wind; 

Before him went devouring flame, 
And thunder rolled behind. 

At his approach the mountains reeled. 
Like vessels, to and fro ; 

Earth, heaving like a sea, revealed 
The gulfs below.- 

Borne through the wilderness in wrath, 

He seemed, in power alone, a God : 
But blessings followed in his path. 

For Mercy seized his rod. 
He smote the rock, and, as he passed, 
Forth gushed a living stream ; 
\ The fire, the earthquake, and the blast, 

Fled as a dream. 



> 



NATIONAL READER. 185 



LESSON C. 

Religious Education iiidispensable to individual Happiness, 
and to national Prosperity. — Greenwood. 

Religion is the only sure foundation of virtue ; and what 
is any human heing, young or old, rich or poor, without vir- 
tue ? He cannot he trusted, he cannot be respected, confided 
in, or loved. Religion is the only sure index of duty ; and 
how can any one pursue an even, or a reputable course, with- 
out rules and without principles ? Religion is the only guide 
to true happiness ; and who is there so hardy as to assume 
.the tremendous responsibility of withholding those instruc- 
tions and consolations, which dispel doubt, soothe affliction, 
make the bed of sickness, spread the dying pillow, and open 
the gates of an effulgent futurity ? 

Let, then, religion be the primary object in the education 
of the young. Let it mingle, naturally, easily, and graceful- 
ly, in all their pursuits and acquirements. Let it be rendered 
intelligible, attractive, and practical. Let it win their affec- 
tions, command their reverence, and ensure their obedience. 
Children, of any class whatever, may be taught in a great 
compass and liberality of knowledge, not only without appre- 
hension, but with assiduity and encouragement ; but let them, 
above all things, be " taught of the Lord." 

And what follows ? When all thy children shall be taught 
of the Lord, what is the promise, the reward, and the con- 
summation? "Great shall be the peace of thy children." 
All the blessings, signified by that word peace, shall be the 
lot of those Avho are thus wisely instructed, and shall descend 
on the community, in proportion as it has exerted itself to 
diffuse light and religion throughout its whole mass. 

Knowledge of itself is power ; and when the knowledge 
of the Lord is united with it, it is happiness and real pros- 
perity. Order reigns — the best order — that which is pro- 
duced, not so much by the coercive operations of authority 
and law, as by the independent righteousness of each indi- 
iddual, who bears about with him his own law : freedom 
finds its congenial habitation and home ; for general intelli- 
gence inspires mutual respect, and self-respect ; and, " where 
the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty." 

Benevolence is ever active and zealous ; for knowledge is 
tke enemy of selfishness. Religion warms and expands the 
16=^ 



186 NATIONAL READER. 

heart, and the disciple of Christ is assured, that the best ser- 
vice of God is the service of mankind. In short, there can- 
not be other than a sense of security, and a composed coun- 
tenance of peace, feh and experienced throughout society, 
when those principles of religious knowledge are generally 
and practically received, which hold up plainly before the 
face of every man, his duty to his Maker, to his neighbour, 
and to his own self. 

Then there is that separate, individual peace, which takes 
up its dwelling in the hearts of all those who have been 
taught of the Lord ; a peace, holy, heavenly, profound, 
which the world cannot give, because it is above the world, 
and independent of it ; the peace of a quiet conscience, of a 
regulated mind, of innocent hopes, of calm desires, of the 
love which embraces humanity, and the trust which reposes 
on Heaven ; a gentle river, running through the life, im- 
parting beauty, pouring out refreshment, and lending its 
grateful moisture to the most hidden and attenuated roots 
and threads of sentiment and feeling, clothing the sands 
with verdure, and sprinkling the lonely places with sweet 
flowers. Add this peace of each single bosom to that gene- 
ral peace which pervades the community, and how truly may 
it be called great ! 

I deny not that a nation may become powerful, victorious, 
renowned, wealthy, and full of gTeat men, even though it 
should neglect the education of the humbler classes of its 
population ; but I do deny, that it can ever become a happy 
or a truly prosperous nation, till all its children are taught 
of the Lord. 

To say nothing of the despotisms of the east, look at the 
kingdoms of Europe, with their battles,, and their alliances, 
and their pompous and gaudy ceremonies, and their impos- 
ing clusters of high titles and celebrated names ; and, after 
this showy phantasmagoria has passed away, mark the con- 
dition of the majority, observe their superstition, their sla- 
vishness, their sensual enjoyments, their limited range of 
thought, their almost brutalized existence ; mark this, and 
say whether a heavenly peace is among them. Alas ! they 
know not the things which belong to their peace, nor 
are their rulers desirous that they should know, but rather 
prefer that they should live on in submissive ignorance, that 
they may be at all times ready to swell the trains of their 
masters' pride, and be sacrificed by hecatombs to their mas- 
ters' ambition. 






NATIONAL READER. 187 

Far different were the views of those gifted patriarchs 
who founded a new empire here. They were determined 
that all their children should be taught of the Lord ; and, 
side by side with the humble dwellings, which sheltered 
their heads from the storms of a strange world, arose the 
school-house and the house of God. And, ever after, the 
result has been peace, — great, unexampled peace ; peace to 
the few, who gradually encroached on the primeval forests 
of the land, and peace to the millions, who have now spread 
themselves abroad in it from border to border. In the 
strength and calm resolution of that peace they stood up 
once, and shook themselves free from the rusted fetters of 
the old world ; and in the beauty and dignity of that peace 
they stand up now, self-governed, orderly, and independent, 
— a wonder to the nations. 

If a stranger should inquire of me the principal cause and 
source of this greatness of my country, would I bid him look 
on the ocean widely loaded with our merchandise, and 
proudly ranged by our navy? or on the land where it is 
girdled by roads, and scored by canals, and burthened with 
the produce of our industry and ingenuity ? — would I bid 
him look on these things as the springs of our prosperity ? 

Indeed, I would not. Nor would I show him our colleges 
and literary institutions ; for he can see nobler ones else- 
where. I would pass all these by, and would lead him out 
by some winding highway among the hills and woods, and, 
when the cultivated spots grew small and infrequent, and 
the houses became few and scattered, and a state of primi- 
tive nature seemed to be immediately before us, I would 
stop in some sequestered spot, and, directed by a steady 
hum, like that of bees, I would point out to him a lowly 
building, hardly better than a shed, but full of blooming 
happy children, collected together from the remote and 
unseen farm-houses, conning over their various tasks, or 
reading with a voice of reverential monotony, a portion of 
the Word of God ; and I would bid him note, that, even 
here, in the midst of poverty and sterility, was a specimen 
of the thousand nurseries, in which all our children are taught 
of the Lord, and formed, some to legislate for the land, and 
all to understand its constitution and laws, to maintain their 
unspotted birthright, and contribute to the great aggregate 
of the intelligence, the morality, the power and peace of this 
mighty commonwealth. 



J .-.-J-MU- 



388 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON CI. 

Importance of Science to a Practical Mechanic. — 
^ G. B. Emerson. 

Let us imagine for a moment the condition of an indi- 
vidual, who has not advanced beyond the merest elements 
of knowledge, who understands nothing of the principles 
even of his own art, and inquire what change will be 
wrought in his feelings, his hopes, and happiness, in all 
that makes up the character, by .the gradual inpouring of 
knowledge. 

He has now the capacity of thought, but it is a barren 
facult}^, never nourished by the food of the mind, and never 
rising above the poor objects of sense. Labour and rest, the 
hope of mere animal enjoyment, or the fear of want, the care 
of providing covering and food, make up the whole sum of 
his existence. Such a man may be industrious, but he can- 
not love labour, for it is not relieved by the excitement of 
improving or changing the processes of his art, nor cheered 
by the hope of a better condition. 

When released from labour he does not rejoice ; for mere 
idleness is not enjoyment, and he has no book, no lesson 
of science, no play of the mind, no interesting pursuit, to 
give a zest to the hour of leisure. Home has few charms 
for him ; he has little taste for the quiet, the social converse, 
and exchange of feeling and thought, the innocent enjoy- 
ments, that ought to dwell there. Society has little to in- 
terest him ; for he has no sympathy for the pleasures or pur- 
suits, the cares or troubles of others, to whom he cannot feel 
nor perceive his bonds of relationship. 

All of life is but a poor boon for such a man ; and happy 
for himself and for mankind, if the few ties that hold him to 
this negative existence be not broken. Happy for him if 
that best and surest friend of man, that messenger of good 
news from heaven to the poorest wretch on earth, Religion, 
bringing the fear of God, appear to save him. Without her 
to support, should temptation assail him, what an easy victim 
would he fall to vice or crime ! How little would be neces- 
sary to overturn his ill-balanced principles, and leave him 
grovelling in intemperance, or send him abroad on the ocean 
or the highway, an enemy to himself and his kind ! 

But, let the light of science fall upon that man ; open to 



NATIONAL READER. 189 

him. the fountain of knowledge. A few principles of phi- 
losophy enter his mind, and awaken the dormant power of 
thought. He begins to look upon his art with an altered 
eye. It ceases to be a dark mechanical process, which he 
cannot understand ; he regards it as an object of inquiry, and 
begins to penetrate the reasons, and acquire a new mastery 
over his own instruments. 

He finds other and better modes of doing what he had 
done before, blindly and without interest, a thousand times. 
He learns to profit by the experience of others, and ventures 
upon untried paths. Difficulties, which before would have 
stopped him at the outset, receive a ready solution from some 
luminous principle of science. ' 

He gains new knowledge and new skill, and can improve 
the quality of his manufacture, while he shortens the pro- 
cess and diminishes his own labour. Then labour becomes 
sweet to him ; it is accompanied by the consciousness of 
increasing power; it is leading him forward to a higher 
place among his fellow men. Relaxation, too, is sweet to 
him, as it enables him to add to his intellectual stores, and 
to mature, by undisturbed meditation, the plans and concep- 
tions of the hour of labour. 

His home has acquired a new charm ; for he is become a 
man of thought, and feels and enjoys the peace and seclu- 
sion of that sacred retreat ; and he carries thither the honest 
complacency, which is the companion of well-earned success. 
There, too, bright visions of the future sphere open upon 
him, and excite a kindly feeling towards those who are to 
share in his prosperity. 

Thus his mind and heart expand together. He has be- 
come an intelligent being, and, while he has learned to 
esteem himself, he has also learned to live no longer for 
himself alone. Society opens like a new world to him ; he 
looks upon his fellow creatures with interest and sympathy, 
and feels that he has a place in their affections and respect. 
Temptations assail him in vain. He is armed by high and 
pure thoughts. He takes a wider view of his relations with 
the beings about and above him. He welcomes every gene- 
rous virtue that adorns and dignifies the human character. 
He delights in the exercise of reason. He glories in the 
consciousness and the hope of immortality. 



^jg^^7'y?"*y^« ^ r r « ^ i '^' .-■»;j=t»w^ 



190 NATIONAL READER. ^^' 



LESSON CII. 

Story of Rabbi Ak'iba, — Hurwitz's Hebrew Tales. 

Compelled, by violent persecution, to quit his native land, 
Rabbi Akiba wandered over barren wastes and dreary de- 
serts. His whole equipage consisted of a lamp, which h« 
used to light at night, in order to study the law ; a cock, 
which served him instead of a watch, to announce to him 
the rising dawn ; and an ass, on which he rode. 

The sun Avas gradually sinking behind the horizon, 
night was fast approaching, and the poor wanderer knew 
not where to shelter his head, or where to rest his wearv 
limbs. Fatigued, and almost exhausted, he came at last 
near a village. He was glad to find it inhabited, thinking, 
where human beings dwelt, there dwelt, also, humanity and 
compassion. 

But he was mistaken. He asked for a night's lodging. It 
was refused. Not one of the inhospitable inhabitants would 
accommodate him. He was, therefore, obliged to seek shel- 
ter in a neighbouring wood. " It is hard, very hard," said 
he, "not to find a hospitable roof to protect me against the 
inclemency of the weather ; but God is just, and whatever 
he does is for the best." 

He seated himself beneath a tree, lighted his lamp, and 
began to read the law. He had scarcely read a chapter, 
when a violent storm extinguished the light. "What!" ex- 
claimed he, " must I not be permitted even to pursue my 
favorite study I But God is just, and whatever he does is 
for the best." 

He stretched himself on the earth, willing, if possible, to 
have a few hours' sleep. He had hardly closed his eyes, 
when a fierce wolf came and killed the cock. " What new 
misfortune is this!" ejaculated the astonished Akiba. "My 
vigilant companion is gone ! Who, then, will henceforth 
awaken me to the study of the law ? But God is just ; he 
knows what is good for us poor mortals." 

Scarcely had he finished the sentence, when a terrible lion 
came and devoured the ass. " What is to be done now ?" 
exclaimed the lonely wanderer. " My lamp and my cock 
are gone — my poor ass, too, is gone — all is gone! But, 
praised be the Lord, whatever he does is for the best." 
He passed a sleepless night, and, early in the morning, went 



NATIONAL READER. 191 

to the village to see whether he could procure a horse, or 
any other heast of burden, to enable him. to pursue his jour- 
ney. But what was his surprise, not to find a single indi- 
vidual alive ! 

It appears, that a band of robbers had entered the village 
during the night, killed its inhabitants, and plundered their 
houses. As soon as Akiba had sufficiently recovered from, 
the amazement, into which this wonderful occurrence had 
thrown him, he lifted up his voice, and exclaimed, " Thou 
great God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, now I 
know, by experience, that poor mortal men are short-sighted 
and blind ; often considering as evils, what was intended for 
their preservation ! But thou, alone, art just, and kind, and 
merciful. 

"Had not the hard-hearted people driven me, by their 
inhospitality, from the village, I should assuredly have shar- 
ed their fate. Had not the wind extinguished my lamp, the 
robbers would have been drawn to the spot, and have mur- 
dered me. I perceive, also, that it was thy mercy which 
deprived me of my companions, that they might not, by 
their noise, give notice to the banditti where I was. Praised, 
then, be thy name for ever and ever!" 



LESSON cm. 

-Mice jPeZ^.— WoRtiswoRTH. 

The post-boy drove with fierce career, — 

For threatening clouds the moon had drowned,- 

When suddenly I seemed to hear 
A moan, a lamentable sound. 

As if the wind blew many ways 

I heard the sound, and more and more : 

It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
And still I heard it, as before. 

At length, I to the boy called out : 

He stopped his horses at the word ; 
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 

Nor ought else like it, could be heard 



192 



NATIONAL READER. 



The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
The horses scampered through the rain ; 

And soon I heard, upon the blast. 

The voice, and bade^ him hah again. 

Said I, alighting on the ground, 

"What can it be, this piteous moan ?" 

And there a little girl I found, 
Sitting behind the chaise alone. 

"My cloak!" the word was last and first, 

And loud and bitterly she wept, 
As if her very heart would burst ; 

And down from off the chaise she leapt. 

"What ails you, child?" She sobbed, "Look here!" 

I saw it in the wheel entangled, — 
A weather-beaten rag as e'er 

From any garden scare-crow dangled. 

'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke : 
Her help she lent, and, with good heed, 

Together we released the cloak, — 
A wretched, wnretched rag, indeed ! 

"And whither are you going, child, 

To-night, along these lonesome ways ?" 

"To Durham," answered she, half wild: — 
"Then come with me into the chaise." 

She sat like one past all relief; 

Sob after sob she forth did send 
In -wretchedness, as if her grief 

Could never, never, have an end. 

" My child, in Durham do you dwell ?" 

She checked herself in her distress, 
And said, " My name is Alice Fell : 

I'm fatherless and motherless. 



"And I to Durham, sir, belong." 

And then, as if the thought would choke 
Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; 

And all w^as for her tattered cloak. 



* Pron. bad. 



NATIONAL READER. 193 



The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 
Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side, 

As if she'd lost her only friend, 
She wept, nor would be pacified. 

Up to the {avern-door we post : — 
Of Alice and her grief I told ; 

And I gave money to the host, 
To buy a new cloak for the old. 

" And let it be of duffil gray, 

As warm a cloak as man can sell!" 

Proud creature was she, the next day, 
The little orphan, Alice Fell. 



LESSON CIV. 

To the Molian Harp. — European Magazine. 

Harp of the Zephyr, whose least breath, o'er 
Thy tender string moving, is felt by thee ; — 

Harp of the whirlwind, whose fearfullest roar 
Can arouse thee to nought but harmony ; — 

The leaf that curls upon youth's warm hand, 
Hath not a more sensitive soul than thou ; 

Yet the spirit that's in thee, unharmed, can withstand 
The blast that shivers the stout oak bough. 

When thankless flowers in silence bend. 

Thou hailest the freshness of heaven with song ; 

When forests the air with their bowlings rend, 
Thou soothest the storm as it raves along. 

Yes : thine is the magic of Friendship's bower,- — 

That holiest temple of all below : — 
Thou hast accents of bliss for the calmest hour, 

But a heavenlier note for the season of wo. 

Harp of the breeze, whether gentle or strong, 
When shall I feel thy enchantment again ? 
17 



194 NATIONAL READER. 

Hark! hark! — even the sv^rell of my own wild song ■ 
Hath awakened a mild, responsive strain. 

It is not an echo : 'tis far too sweet 

To be born of a lay so rude as mine : 
But, oh ! when terror and softness meet. 

How pure are the hues of the wreath tliey twine ! 

Thus the breath of my rapture hath swept thy chords, 
And filled them with music, alas ! not its own, . 

Whose melody tells but how much my words. 

Though admiring, have wronged that celestial tone. 

I hear it, — I hear it, — now fitfully swelling. 
Like a chorus of seraphim earthward hying ; 

And now, — as in search of a loftier dwelling, — 
The voices away, one by one, are dying* 

Heaven's own harp! save angel fingers. 

None should dare open thy mystic treasures. 

Farewell ! for each note on mine ear still lingers, 
And mine may not mingle with thy blest measures. 



LESSON CV. 

Burial of Sir John Moore.'^ — C. Wolfe. 

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his far_ewell shot 
O'er the grave v/here our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moon-beam's misty light, 
And the lantern, dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him ; 

But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

* Who fell in th3 battle of Corunna.j in Spain, 1803. 



NATIONAL READER. 195 

Few and short v/ere tlie prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 
That the foe would be rioting over his head, 

And we far away on the billow. 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, - 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard, by the distant random gun, 
That the foe was suddenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him do-wn. 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
But left him alone with his glory. 



LESSON CVL 



War contrary to the Courses of 'Nature^ and the Spirit of 

the Gospel. — Mellen. 

Oh ! how shall man his crime extenuate ! 
What sees he in this brave o'erarching sphere. 
The rich domain of nature, that will hold 
A moment's friendship with his cheerless way ! 
He looks upon the wide and glowing earth. 
And hears the hum of bees, and sees its bloom , 
Rolling in all its luxury for him. 
He sees the trees wave in the peaceful sky, 
And dally with the breezes as they pass. 
He sees the golden harvest stoop for him. 
And feels a quietness on all the hills. 
He looks upon the seasons, as they come. 
In beautiful succession, from the heavens, 
With bud and blossoming, and fruits, and snows. 



196 NATIONAL READER. 

There is no war among them; they pass on, 
Light beaming from their footsteps as they go, 
And, with the cheerful voice of sympathy, 
They give a melody to all the earth. 
Each calling to the other through the year ! 
He looks upon the firmament, at night : 
There are a thousand lustres hanging there. 
Mocking the splendors of Golconda : there 
He sees the glorious company of stars. 
Journeying in peace and beauty through the deep, 
Shining in praise forever ! They look down, 
Each like a bright and calm Intelligence, . 
Above a sphere they all compassionate. 
There is no war among these sparkling hosts : 
They go in silence through the great profound, 
Each on its way of glory ; they proclaim 
The order and magnificence of Him, 
Who bade them roll in peace around his throne. 
, Oh ! when the planet shone o'er Bethlehem, 
And light came round the shepherds on the hills, 
And wise men rose in wonder from their dreams, 
There came a voice sublime upon the winds, 
Proclaiming Peace above a prostrate world ! 
The morning stars sang Peace : the sons of God 
Struck all their heavenly lyres again ; and Peace 
Died in symphonious murmurs round the babe. 
Thus broke Salvation's morning. But the day 
Has heard new sounds ; and, dissonant and dire, 
The mingled tumult swelled the coming storm, 
Darkening its path with black, portentous front, 
Until it burst in havoc and in war ! 
Oh ! may the fearful eventide of time, 
Find man upon the dust in penitence. 
In the strong brotherhood of Peace and prayer. 



LESSON CVIL 



Brief Account of the first Settlers ofNeio England ; their de- 
parture from Europe ; and their landing at Plymouth, Mass. 
22d Dec. 1620. — Abridged from Robertson and Neal. 

Robert Brovtn, a popular preacher in high estimation 
among the Puritans of England, in the reign of Queen 



NATIONAL READER. 197 

Elizabeth, maintained that a society of Christians, uniting 
together to worship God, constituted a church, possessed of 
complete jurisdiction in the conduct of its own affairs, inde- 
pendent of any other society, and accountable to no supe- 
rior I — that the priesthood neither was a distinct order in the 
church, nor conferred an indelible character ; but that every 
man, qualified to teach, might be set apart for that office by 
the election of the brethren, and by imposition of their hands ; 
and that, in like manner, by their authority, he might be dis- 
charged from that function, and reduced to the rank of a 
private Christian. 

Those who adopted this democratical form of government, 
which abolished all distinction of ranks in the church, and 
conferred an equal portion of power on each individual, were, 
from the founder of the sect, denominated Brownists : and, 
as their te'nets were more hostile to the established religion 
than those of other separatists, the fiercest storm of persecu- 
tion fell upon their heads. Many of them were fined or 
.imprisoned, and some were put to death. 

Still, the sect not only subsisted, but continued to spread. 
But, as all their motions were carefully watched, both by the 
ecclesiastical and civil courts, which, as often as they were 
detected, punished them with the utmost rigour, a body of 
them, weary of living in a state of continual danger and 
alai-m, fled to Holland, and settled in Leyden, under the care 
of Mr. John Kobinson their pastor. 

There they resided for several years, unmolested and ob- 
scure. But, many of their aged members dying, and some 
of the younger marrying into Dutch families, while their 
church received no increase, either by recruits from England, 
or by proselytes gained in the country, they began to be 
afraid, that all their high attainments in spiritual knowledge 
would be lost, and that that perfect fabric of policy, which 
they had erected, would be dissolved, and consigned to obli- 
vion, if they remained longer in a strange land. 

At length, after several solemn addresses to Heaven, the 
younger part of the congregation resolved to remove into 
some part of America, under the protection of the king of 
England, where they might enjoy the liberty of their con- 
sciences, and be capable of encouraging their friends and 
countrymen to follow them. 

Accordingly, they sent over agents into England, v/ho, 
having obtained a patent from the crown, agreed with seve- 
ral merchants to become adventurers in the undertaking. Se- 
17=^ 



198 NATIONAL READER. 

veral of Mr. Robinson's congregation sold their estates, and 
made a common bank, with which they purchased a small 
ship of sixty tons,^ and hired another of one hundred and 
eighty.! 

The agents sailed into Holland with their own ship, to 
take in as many of the congregation g,s were willing to em- 
bark, while the other vessel was freighting with all necessa- 
ries for the new plantation. All things being ready, Mr. 
Robinson observed a day of fasting and prayer with his con- 
gregation, and took his leave of the adventurers with the 
following truly generous and Christian exhortation : 

" Brethren, — We are now quickly to part from one ano- 
ther, and whether I may ever live to see your faces on earth 
any more, the God of heaven only knows ; but, whether the 
Lord has appointed that or no, I charge you, before God and 
his blessed angels, that you follow me no farther than you 
have seen me follow the Lord Jesus Christ. 

"If God reveal any thing to you, by any other instrument 
of his, be as ready to receive it as ever you were to receive 
any truth by my ministry ; for I am verily persuaded, the 
Lord has more truth yet to break forth out of his holy word. 
For my part, I cannot sufficiently bewail the condition of 
the reformed churches, who are come to a period in religion, 
and will go at present no farther than the instruments of 
their reformation. The Lutherans cannot be drawn to go 
beyond what Luther saw : whatever part of his will our God 
has revealed to Calvin, they w^ill rather die than embrace it ; 
and the Calvinists, you see, stick fast where they were left 
by that great man of God, who yet saw not all things. 

" This is a misery much to be lamented ; for, though they 
were burning and shining lights in their times, yet they pe- 
netrated not into the whole counsel of God, but, were they 
now living, would be as willing to embrace further light as 
that which they first received. I beseech you remember, it 
is an article of your church covenant, that you be ready to 
receive lohatever truth shall be made known to you from the 
written ivord of God. Remember that, and every other 
article of your sacred covenant. But I must herewithal ex- 
hort you to take heed what you receive as truth ; examine it, 
consider it, and compare it with other scriptures of truth, 
before you receive it ; for it is not possible the Christian 

* The Speedwell. t The May-Flower. 



%II ' -J.l — i^jT^ ^- 



NATIONAL READER. 199 

world should come so lately out of such thick antichristian 
darkness, and that perfection of knowledge should break 
forth at once. 

" I must also advise you to abandon, avoid, and shake off 
the name of Brownists ; it is a mere nick-name, and a brand 
for the making of religion, and the professors of it, odious to 
the Christian world." 

On the 1st of July, 1620, the adventurers Avent from Ley- 
den to Delfthaven, whither Mr. Robinson and the ancients 
of his congregation accompanied them ; they continued to- 
gether all night ; and next morning, after mutual embraces, 
Mr. Robinson kneeled down on the sea-shore, and, with a 
fervent prayer, committed them to the protection and bless- 
ing of Heaven. The adventurers were about one hundred 
and twenty, who, having joined their other ship, sailed for 
New England, Augast 5th ; but, one of their vessels proving 
leaky, they left it, and embarked in one vessel, which arriv- 
ed at Cape Cod, November 9th, 1620. 

Sad was the condition of these poor men, who had the 
winter before them, and no accommodations at hand for their 
entertainment : most of them were in a weak and sickly con- 
dition with the voyage : but there was no remedy : they 
therefore manned their long boat, and, having coasted the 
shore, at length found a tolerable harbour, where they land- 
ed, with a part of their effects, on the 22d of December, and, 
on the 25th, began to build a storehouse, and some small 
cottages, to preserve them from the weather. 

Their company was divided into nineteen families, each 
family having an allotment of land for lodging and gardens, 
in proportion to the number of persons of which it consisted ; 
and, to prevent disputes, the situation of each family was 
decided by lot. They agreed likewise upon some laws for 
their civil and military government, and, having chosen a 
governor, they called the place of their settlement by the 
name of New Plymouth. 

Inexpressible were the hardships these new planters un- 
derwent, the first winter. A sad mortality raged among 
them, occasioned by the fatigues of their late voyage, by the 
severity of the weather, and their want of necessaries. The 
country was full of woods and thickets ; their poor cottages 
could not keep them warm ; they had no physician, or 
wholesome food ; so that, within two or three months, half 
their company was dead, and of them who remained alive — 
about fifty — not above six or seven at a time were capa- 



•^ 



200 



rATIONAL READER. 



ble of helping the rest. But, as the spring came on, these re- 
covered, and, having received some fresh supplies from their 
friends in England, they maintained their station, and laid 
the foundation of one of the noblest settlements in America, 
which from that time has proved an asylum for the Protest- 
ant Non-conformists under all their oppressions. 



LESSON CVIIL 



Extract from an Oration^ delivered at Plymouth, Mass. 22d 
Dec. 1S24, in commemoration of the landing of the Pil- 
grims. — E. Everett. 

It is not by pompous epithets or lively antitheses, that the 
exploits of the pilgrims are to be set forth by their children. 
We can only do this worthily, by repeating the plain tale of 
their sufferings, by dwelling on the circumstances under 
which their memorable enterprise was executed, and by 
cherishing and uttering that spirit, which led them across 
the ocean, and guided them to the spot where we stand. — 
We need no voice of artificial - rhetoric to celebrate their 
names. The bleak and deathlike desolation of nature pro- 
claims, with touching eloquence, the fortitude and patience 
of the meek adventurers. On the bare and wintry fields 
around us, their exploits are written in characters, which 
will last, and tell their tale to posterity, when brass and 
marble have crumbled into dust. 

The occasion which has called us together is certainly one 
to which no parallel exists in the history of the world. Other 
countries, and our own also, have their national festivals. 
They commemorate the birthdays of their illustrious chil- 
dren ; they celebrate the foundation of important institutions : 
momentous events, victories, reformations, revolutions, awak- 
en, on their anniversaries, lim grateful and patriotic feelings 
of posterity. But we comnlpnorate the birthday of all New 
England ; the foundation, not of one institution, but of all 
fhe institutions, the settlements, the establishments, the com- 
munities, the societies, the improvements, comprehended 
within our broad and happy borders. 

Were it only as an act of rare adventure ; were it a trait 
in foreign or ancient history ; we should fix upon the 
achievement of our fathers, as one of the noblest deeds in 
the annals of the world. Were we attracted to it by no 



SO- 



NATIONAL READER. 201 

Other principle than that sympathy we feel in all the for- 
tunes of our race, it could lose nothing — it must gain — in 
the contrast, with whatever history or tradition has pre- 
served to us of the wanderings and settlements of the tribes 
of man. A continent for the first time effectually explored ; 
a vast ocean traversed by men, women, and children, volun- 
tarily exiling themselves from the fairest regions of the old 
world ; and a great nation grown up, in the space of two 
centuries, on the foundations so perilously laid by this pious 
band : — point me to the record, to the tradition, nay, to the 
fiction, of any thing, that can enter into competition with 
it. It is the language, not of exaggeration, but of truth and 
soberness, to say, that there is nothing in the accounts of 
Phenician, of Grecian, or of Roman colonization, that can 
stand in the comparison. 

What new importance, then, does not the achievement 
acquire to our minds, when we consider that it was the deed 
of our fathers ; that this grand undertaking was accomplish- 
ed on the spot where we dAvell ; that the mighty region they 
explored is our native land ; that the unrivalled enterprise 
they displayed is not merely a fact proposed to our admira- 
tion, but is the source of our being ; that their cruel hardships 
are the spring of our prosperity ; their amazing sufferings 
the seed, from which our happiness has sprung ; that their 
weary banishment gave us a home- ; that to their separation 
from every thing which is dear and pleasant in life, we owe 
all the comforts, the blessings, the privileges, which make 
our lot the envy of mankind. 



LESSON CIX. 

Second Extract, from the same. 

It was not enough that our fathers were of England : the 
masters of Ireland, and the lords of Hindostan, are of Eng- 
land too. But our fathers were Englishmen, aggrieved, per- 
secuted, and banished. It is a principle, amply borne out 
by the history of the great and powerful nations of the earth, 
and by that of none more than the country of which we 
speak, that the best fruits and choicest action of the com'- 
mendable qualities of the national character, are to be found 
on the side of the oppressed few, eind not of the triumphant 



202 NATIONAL READER. 

many. As, in private character, adversity is often requisite 
to give a proper direction and temper to strong qualities ; so 
the noblest traits of national character, even under the freest 
and most independent of hereditary governments, are com- 
monly to be sought in the ranks of a protesting minority, or 
of a dissenting sect. Never was this truth more clearly il- 
lustrated than in the settlement of New England. 

Could a common calculation of policy have dictated the 
terms of that settlement, no doubt our foundations would 
have been laid beneath the royal smile. Convoys and na- 
vies would have been solicited to waft our fathers to the 
coast ; armies, to defend the infant communities ; and the 
flattering patronage of princes and lords, to espouse their in- 
terests in the councils of the mother country. Happy, that 
our fathers enjoyed no such patronage ; happy, that they 
fell into no such protecting hands ; happy, that our founda- 
tions were silently and deeply cast, in quiet insignificance, 
beneath a charter of banishment, persecution, and contempt ; 
so that, when the ro3ral arm was at length outstretched against 
us, instead of a submissive child, tied down by former graces, 
it found a youthful giant in the land, born amidst hard- 
ships, and nourished on the rocks, indebted for no favours, 
and owing no duty. From the dark portals of the star cham- 
ber, and in the stern text of the acts of uniformity, the pil- 
grims received a commission more efficient than any that 
ever bore the royal seal. Their banishment to Holland was 
fortunate ; the decline of their little company in the strange 
land was fortunate ; the difficulties which they experienced 
in getting the royal consent to banish themselves to this 
wilderness were fortunate ; all the tears and heart-breakings 
of that ever-memorable parting at Delfthaven had the hap- 
piest influence on the rising destinies of New England. 
All this purified the ranks of the settlers. These rough 
touches of fortune brushed off' the light, uncertain, selfish 
spirits. They made it a grave, solemn, self-denying expe- 
dition, and required of those who engaged in it, to be so 
too. They cast a broad shadow of thought and seriousnes? 
over the cause, and, if this sometimes deepened into melan 
choly and bitterness, can we find no apology for such a hu- 
man weakness ? 

It is sad, indeed, to reflect on the disasters, which the little 
band of pilgrims encountered ; — ^sad to see a portion of 
them, the prey of unrelenting cupidity, treacherously em- 
barked in an unsound, unseaworthy ship, which they are 



NATIONAL READER. 203 

soon obliged to abandon, and crowd themselves into one 
vessel — one hundred persons, besides the ship's company, 
in a vessel of one hundred and eighty tons. One is touched 
at the story of the long, cold, and weary autumnal passage ; 
of the landing on the inhospitable rocks at this dismal sea- 
son, where they are deserted, before long, by the ship which 
had brought them, and which seemed their only hold upon 
the world of fellow men, — a prey to the elements and to 
want, and fearfully ignorant of the numbers, the power, and 
the temper of the savage tribes, that filled the unexplored 
continent, upon whose verge they had ventured. But all this 
wrought together for good. These trials of wandering and 
exile, of the ocean, the winter, the wilderness, and the savage 
foe, were the final assurance of success. It was these that 
put far away from our fathers' cause all patrician softness, 
all hereditary claims to pre-eminence. No effeminate nobility 
crowded into the dark and austere ranks of the pilgrims ; 
no Carr nor Villiers would lead on the ill-provided band 
of despised Puritans ; no well-endowed clergy were on the 
alert to quit their cathedrals, and set up a pompous hierarchy 
in the frozen wilderness ; no craving governors were anxious 
to be sent over to our cheerless El Dorados of ice and of 
snow. No ; they could not say they had encouraged, patron- 
ised, or helped the pilgrims : their own cares, their own 
labours, their O'wtl councils, their own blood, contrived all, 
achieved all, bore all, sealed all. They could not after- 
wards fairly pretend to reap where they had not stro^vn : 
and, as our fathers reared this broad and solid fabric with 
pains and watchfulness, unaided, barely tolerated, it did not 
fall when the favour, which had always been withholden, 
was changed into wrath ; when the arm, which had never 
supported, was raised to destroy. 

Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous ves- 
sel, the Ptiay-Flower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the 
prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown 
sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the 
uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks 
and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, 
but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I 
see them now scantily supplied with provisions, crowded 
almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by 
calms, pursuing a circuitous route ; — and now driven in fury 
before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves. 
The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging ; 



204 NATIONAL READER. 

the labouring masts seem straining from their base ; the 
dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, as it 
were, madly, from billow to billow ; the ocean breaks, and 
settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and 
beats, with deadening, shivering weight, against the stag- 
gered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pur- 
suing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, 
after a five months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Ply- 
mouth, — weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, 
scantily provisioned, depending on the charity of their ship- 
m.aster for a draught of beer on board, drinking nothing but 
water on shore, — without shelter, — without means, — sur- 
rounded by hostile tribes. Shut now the volume of history, 
and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what 
shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers. — Tell me, 
m.an of military science, in how many months were they all 
swept off" by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the 
early limits of New England ? Tell me, politician, how 
long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions 
and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast ? 
Student of history, compare for me the bafiled projects, the 
deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other 
times, and find the parallel of this. Was it the winter's 
storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and chil- 
dren ; was it hard labour and spare meals ; was it dis- 
ease ; was it the tomahawk ; was it the deep malady of a 
blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, 
aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved 
and left, beyond the sea ; — was it some, or all of these 
united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melan- 
choly fate ? — And is it possible that neither of these causes, 
that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope ? — 
Is it possible, that, from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so 
worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone 
forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expan- 
sion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be 
i| fulfilled, so glorious ? =^ -^ ^ ^ 

I do not fear that we shall be accused of extravagance in 
the enthusiasm we feel at a train of events of such aston- 
ishing magnitude, novelty and consequence, connected, by 
associations so intimate, with the day we now hail, with 
the events we now celebrate, with the pilgrim fathers of 
New England. Victims of persecution ! how wide an em- 
pire acknowledges the sway of your principles ! Apostles 



NATIONAL READER. 205 

of liberty! what millions attest the authenticity of youT 
mission ! Meek champions of truth ! no stain of private in- 
terest, or of innocent blood, is on the spotless garments of 
your renown ! The great continents of America have be- 
come, at length, the theatre of your achievements ; the At- 
lantic and the Pacific the highways of communication, on 
which your principles, your institutions, your example, are 
borne. From the oldest abodes of civilization, the venerable 
plains of Greece, to the scarcely explored range of the Cor- 
dilleras, the impulse you gave at length is felt. While other 
regions revere you as the leaders of this great march of hu- 
manity, we are met, on this joyful day, to offer to your 
memories our tribute of filial afTection. The sons and 
daughters of the pilgrims, we have assembled on the spot 
where you, our suffering fathers, set foot on this happy shore. 
Happy, indeed, it has been for us. O that you could have 
enjoyed those blessings, which you prepared for your chil- 
dren ! — that our comfortable homes could have shielded you 
from the wintry air; our abundant harvests have supplied 
you in time of famine ; and the broad shield of our be- 
loved country have sheltered you from the visitations of 
arbitrary power ! "We come, in our prosperity, to remember 
your trials ; and here, on the spot where New England be- 
gan to be, we come to learn, of our pilgrim fathers, a deep 
and lasting lesson of virtue, enterprise, patience, zeal, and 
faith ! 



LESSON ex. 



Claim of the Pilgrims to the Reverence and Gratitude of 
their Descendants. — O. Dewey. 

Let it not be forgotten, at least by us, the immediate de- 
scendants of the Puritans — for the sake of our gratitude and 
our virtue, too, let it not be forgotten — that, when the weary 
pilgrim traversed this bleak coast, his step was lightened, 
and his heart was cheered, by the thoughts of a virtuous 
posterity; that, when our fathers touched this land, they 
would fain have consecrated it as a holy land ; that, when 
they entered it, they lifted up their eyes towards heaven 
and said, " Let this be the land of refuge for the oppressed 
and persecuted, — the land of knowledge ; and, ! let it be 
18 



206 



NATIONAL READER. 



the land of piety." Let the descendants of the pilgrims 
know, that if their fathers wept, it was not for themselves 
alone ; if they toiled, they toiled, or — as one of them nobly 
said, — they " spent their tim^e, and labours, and endeavours, 
for the benefit of them who should come after;" that if 
they prayed, they prayed not for themselves alone, but for 
their posterity. And little, it may be, do we know of the 
fervour and fortitude of that 'prayer. When loe pray, we 
kneel on pillows of do^vn, beneath our own comfortable 
dwellings : but the pilgrims kneeled on the frozen and flinty 
shore. Oicr prayers ascend within the walls of the conse- 
crated temple : but the mighty wave and the shapeless 
rock, and the dark forest, were their walls : and no shelter- 
ing dome had they, but the rolling clouds of winter, and the 
chill and bleak face of heaven. We pray in peace, and 
quietness, and safety : but tkei?' anxious and wrestling sup- 
plication went up amidst the stirring of the elements, and the 
struggle for life ; and often was the feeble cry of the defence- 
less band broken by the howling of wild beasts, and the war- 
whoop of wilder savages. 

Yes, our lot has fallen to us in different times ; and now it 
is easy for us, no doubt, calmly to survey the actions of those 
who were ensraeed in the heat of the contest : and we have 
leisure to talk at large about ignorance, and bigotry, and su- 
perstition ; and we can take the seat of grave wisdom, and 
philosophize upon the past, when to philosophize is all that 
we can do. Yes, it is easy, now that the forest is cleared 
away, and we bask in the sunshine which they have opened 
upon us, through the deep and dark foliage, — it is easy, no 
doubt, coolly and nicely to mark their mistakes and errors : — 
but go back to their struggle with fear, and want, and dis- 
ease ; go to the fields which they cultivated, and see them with 
the felling axe in one hand, and the weapon of defence in the 
other ; go back to all the rude dwellings of their poverty and 
trouble : — but you cannot, even in imagination, you cannot. 
No : the days of trial and suffering have been ; but it is not 
for us even to understand what they were ! This little only 
is required of us — to do justice to the virtues which we have 
no longer any opportunity to imitate. 

Nor, in urging such an obligation as this, has it often been 
found necessary to com'bat the prejudices of mankind. On 
the contrary, there has been a universal propensity to do more 
than justice, to do honour, to the achievements of past times. 
There never was a people, unless we are the exception, who 



CB^ — '■^ "'i^^ ■ ' ■ ^-: ' — ' y,i ii r i fr: ^i ^j i i ii ;:u . . ii (T ii.r 



NATIONAL READER. 207 

were not inclined to receive the most specious story that 
could be told of their ancestry, who were not glad to have 
their actions set forth in splendid fable. The epic histories 
of Homer and Virgil, all fabulous as they were, were receiv- 
ed with uncontrollable bursts of enthusiasm by their respec- 
tive nations. The Israelites sung the early history of their 
wandering tribes, in all their solemn assemblies. The 
memory of former days and of elder deeds, has always, and 
among all nations, been held sacred. The rudest people 
have not been wanting to their still ruder ancestry. Immor- 
tal poems have preserved their memory ; or their ballads of 
olden time have kept alive, with their simple tale, the recol- 
lection of ancient heroism and suffering. In after days 
History takes up the theme, and, 

" Proud of the treasure, marches down with it 
To latest times ; and Sculpture, in her turn. 
Gives bond, in stone and ever-during brass, 
To guard them, and to immortalize her trust." 

This propensity has given a language to nature itself. 
There is no portion of the earth but has had its consecrated 
spots : — places, the bare mention of which is enough to 
awaken, in all ages, the reverence and enthusiasm of man- 
kind. There is some hill or mountain, that stands as a 
monument of ancient deeds. There is some field of conflict, 
which needs no memorial but a name ; or some rude heap 
of stones at Gilgal, that needs no inscription ; or some rod 
that is ever budding afresh with remembrance. 

And is our own land destitute of every scene that is wor- 
thy to be remembered ? Among all these rich and peaceful 
scenes around us, there is not a plain, but it has been the 
trenched field of the warrior : there is not a hill, but it 
stands as a monument. And the structures of art, that shall 
rise upon them, shall only point them out to other times, as 
holy. But harder contests than those of blood and battle 
have been sustained in this land. And the Kock of Ply- 
mouth shall, in all ages, be celebrated as the ThermopyljE 
of this new world, where a handful of men held conflict 
with ghastly famine, and sweeping pestilence, and the win- 
try storm ; held conflict, and were not conquered. And, so 
long as centuries shall roll over this happy and rising na- 
tion, shall wealth, and taste, and talent, resort to that hallow- 
ed spot, to pay homage to the elder fathers of New Eng- 
land. — Go, children of the pilgrims, — might we say to all 



208 NATIONAL READER. 

the inhabitants of the land, — it is well to gather around that 
shrine of our fathers' virtues, that monument of their toils 
and sufferings, which the chafing billows of the ocean shall 
never wear away. It is well to make a holy pilgrimage to 
that sacred spot. It is well that gifted orators and states- 
men should proclaim our enthusiasm and our gratitude in 
the listening assembly. But with what striking emphasis 
might it be said, to those who make this pilgrimage at the 
present day, "Ye go, not as your fathers came^ in weariness 
and sorrow — not as they came, amidst poverty, and peril, and 
sickness — not through the solitary glooms and howling 
storms of the wilderness ; but ye go, through rich planta- 
tions and happy villages, with chariots, and horses, and 
equipage, and state, with social mirth and joyful minstrelsy 
and music ; but, ah ! remember that ye are gathering to the 
spot, which was once trodden by the steps of the houseless 
wanderer, which was marked with the pilgrim's staff, and 
watered with the pilgrim's tears." =^ =^ =^ =^ 

The claims of ancestry, we know, are commonly held 
sacred, in proportion as its date is removed back into ages 
of antiquity ; in proportion to the number of successive 
generations that have intervened ; in proportion as fiction 
and romance find aid in the darkness of some remote and 
unknown period. But, though the character of our fathers 
needs no such aid, yet I can scarcely conceive any thing 
more romantic even, than their entrance into this vast do- 
main of nature, never before disturbed by the footsteps of 
civilized man. They came to the land where fifty centuries 
had held their reign, with no pen to write their history. 
Silence, which no occupation of civilized life had broken, 
was in all- its borders, and had been from the creation. 
The lofty oak had grown through its lingering age, and de- 
cayed, and perished, without name or record. The storm 
had risen and roared in the wilderness ; and none had caught 
its sublime inspiration. The fountains had flowed on; the 
mighty river had poured its useless waters ; the cataract had 
lifted up its thunderings to the march of time ; and no eye 
had seen it, but that of the wild tenants of the desert. A band 
of fugitives came to this land of barbarism, with no patron- 
age, but the prayers of the friends they had left behind 
them; with no wealth, but habits of industry; with no 
power, but what lay in firm sinews and courageous hearts ; 
and with these they turned back the course of ages. 
Pilgrims from the old world, they became inheritors of the 



BP 



NATIONAL READER. 209 

new. They set up the standard of Christianit)'- ; they open- 
ed the hroad pathways of knowledge ; the forest melted 
away before them, like a dark vapour of the morning ; the 
voice of comfort, the din of business, went back into its 
murmuring solitudes ; the wilderness and solitary place 
were glad for them ; the desert rejoiced and blossomed as 
the rose. We might almost take the description of it from 
the language of prophecy. The lamb lies down in the den 
of the wolf; and where the wild beast prowled, is now the graz- 
ing ox. " The cow and the bear feed, and their young ones lie 
down together. The suckling child plays on the hole of the 
asp, and the weaned child puts his hand on the adder's den." 
Where the deep wood spread its solitary glooms, and the 
fierce savage laid his dark and deadly ambush, are now the 
sunny hill-side, and the waving field, and the flowery plain ; 
and the unconscious child holds his gambols on the ground 
that has been trodden with weariness, and watered with 
tears, and stained with the blood of strife and slaughter. 

These are the days, these are the men, that we are called 
upon to remember and to honour. But it is not enough 
to remember their deeds : we are bound to imitate their 
virtues. This is the true, the peculiar honour, which we 
are bound to render to such an ancestry. The common 
measure of national intelligence and virtue is no rule for us. 
It is not enough for us to be as wise and improved, as virtu- 
ous and pious, as other nations. Providence, in giving to 
us an origin so remarkable and signally favoured, demands 
of us a proportionate improvement. We are in our infancy, 
it is true, but our existence began in an intellectual maturity. 
Our fathers' virtues were the virtues of the wilderness, — yet 
without its wildness ; hardy, and vigorous, and severe, 
indeed, — but not rude, nor mean. Let us beware lest we 
become more prosperous than they, — ^more abundant in 
luxuries, and refinements, — only to be less temperate, upright, 
and religious. Let us beware lest the stern and lofty features 
of primeval rectitude should be regarded with less respect 
among us. Let us beware lest their piety should fall with 
the oaks -of their forests ; lest the loosened bow of early 
habits and opinions, which was once strung in the Avilder- 
ness, should be too much relaxed. 
18# 



210 NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON CXI. 

Song of the FilgriTns. — Upham. 
Written, 1823. 

The breeze has swelled the whitening sail, 
The blue waves curl beneath the gale, 
And, bounding with the wave and wind, 
We leave Old England's shores behind: — 
Leave behind our native shore. 
Homes, and all we loved before. 

The deep may dash, the winds may blow, 
The storm spread out its wings of wo> 
Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud, 
Hung in the folds of every cloud ; 
Still, as long as life shall last. 
From that shore we'll speed us fast. 

For we would rather never be. 
Than dwell where mind cannot be free, 
But bows beneath a despot's rod 
Even where it seeks to worship God. 

Blasts of heaven, onward sweep! 

Bear us o'er the troubled deep ! 

0, see what wonders meet our eyes ! 

Another land, and other skies ! 

Columbian hills have met our view ! 

Adieu ! Old England's shores, adieu ! 
Here, at length, our feet shall rest, 
Hearts be free, and homes be blest. 

As long as yonder firs"^ shall spread 
Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,- 
As long as yonder cliffs shall stand, 
Where join the ocean and the land, — 

Shall those cliffs and mountains be 

Proud retreats for liberty. 

Now to the King of kings we'll raise 
The pse'an loud of sacred praise, 

♦ Pron. ferz. 



NATIONAL READER. - 211 

More loud than sounds the swelling breeze, 
More loud than speak the rolling seas ! 

Happier lands have met our view ! 

England's shores, adieu ! adieu ! 



LESSON CXII. 



The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. — Mrs. Hem'ans. 

Written, 1825. 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast ; 
And the woods, against a stormy sky, 

Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ;-— 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame j— • 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence, and in fear : — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest, by the white wave's foam. 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared : — 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 
Amidst that pilgrim band : - 



212 NATIONAL READER. 

V/hy had they come to wither there, 
Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 
The wealth of seas ? the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine. 

Ay, call it holy ground, — 

The soil where first they trod ! 

They have left unstained what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God I 



LESSON CXIIL 

The Filgrim Fathers. — Original. 

Written, 1824. 

The pilgrim fathers — where are they? 

The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 

As they break along the shore : 
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, 

When the May-Flower moored below, 
When the sea around was black with storms, 

And white the shore with' snow. 

The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep, 

Still brood upon the tide ; 
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride. 
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, 

When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; — 
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, 

Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

The pilgrim exile — sainted name ! — 
The hill, whose icy brow 



NATIONAL READER. ' 213 

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 

In the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the hill-side and the sea, 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head; — 

But the pilgrim — where is he ? 

The pilgrim fathers are at rest : 

When Summer's throned on high, 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On that hallowed spot is cast ; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 

The pilgrim spirit has not fled : . v 

It walks in noon's broad light ; 
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead. 

With the holy stars, by night. 
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 

And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay, 

Shall foam and freeze no more. 



LESSON CXIV. 



Character of the Puritan Fathers of New England, — 

Greenwood. 

One of the most prominent features, which distinguished 
our forefathers, was their determined resistance to oppres- 
sion. They seemed born and brought up, for the high and 
special purpose of showing to the world, that the civil and 
religious rights of man, the rights of self-government, of con- 
science and independent thought, are not merely things to 
be talked of, and woven into theories, but to be adopted with 
the whole strength and ardour of the mind, and felt in the 
profoundest recesses of the heart, and carried out into the 
general life, and made the foundation of practical usefulness, 
and visible beauty, and true nobility. 

Liberty, with them, was an object of too serious desire 
and stern resolve, to be personified, allegorized and enshrin- 



214 " NATIONAL READER. 

ed. They made no goddess of it, as the ancients did ; they 
had no time nor inclination for such trifling ; they felt that 
liberty was the simple birthright of every human creature ; 
they called it so ; they claimed it as such ; they reverenced 
and held it fast as the unalienable gift of the Creator, which 
was not to be surrendered to power, nor sold for wages. 

It was theirs, as men; without it, they did not esteem 
themselves men ; more than any other privilege or pos- 
session, it was essential to their happiness, for it was essen- 
tial to their original nature ; and therefore they preferred it 
above Vv^ealth, and ease, and country ; and, that they might 
enjoy and exercise it fully, they forsook houses, and lands, 
and kindred, their homes, their native soil, and their fathers' 
graves. 

They left all these ; they I~eft England, which, whatever 
it might have been called, was not to them a land of free-" 
dom ; they launched forth on the pathless ocean, the wide, 
fathomless ocean, soiled not by the earth beneath, and 
bounded, all round and above, onty by heaven ; and it seem- 
ed to them like that better and sublimer freedom, which their 
country knew not, but of which they had the conception and 
image in their hearts ; and, after a toilsome and painful 
voyage, they came to a hard and wintry coast, unfruitful 
and desolate, but unguarded and boundless ; its calm silence 
interrupted not the ascent of their prayers ; it had no eyes 
to watch, no ears to hearken, no tongues to report of them ; 
here again there was an answer to their souls' desire, and 
they were satisfied, and gave thanks ; they saw that they 
were free, and the desert smiled. 

I am telling an old tale ; but it is one which must be told, 
when Vv'e speak of those men. It is to be added, that they 
transmitted their principles to their children, and that, peo- 
pled by such a race, our country was always free. So long 
as its inhabitants were unmolested by the mother country, 
in the exercise of their important rights, they submitted to 
the form of English government ; but when those rights Avere 
invaded, they spurned even the form away. 

This act was the revolution, which came of course, and 
spontaneously, and had nothing in it of the wonderful or un- 
foreseen. The wonder would have been, if it had not occurred. 
It was indeed a happy and glorious event, but by no means 
unnatural ; and I intend no slight to the revered actors in 
the revolution, when I assert, that their fathers before them 
were as free as they, — every whit as free. 

The principles of the revolution were not the suddenly 



NATIONAL READER. 215 

acquired property of a few bosoms ; they were abroad in the 
land in the ages before ; they had always been taught, like 
the truths of the Bible ; they had descended from father to 
son, down from those primitive days, when the pilgrim, 
established in his simple dwelling, and seated at his blazing 
fire, piled high from the forest which shaded his door, re- 
peated to his listening children the story of his wrongs and 
his resistance, and bade them rejoice, though the wild winds 
and the wild beasts were howling without, that they had 
nothing to fear from great men's oppression and the bishops' 
rage. 

Here were the beginnings of the revolution. Every set- 
tler's hearth was a school of independence ; the scholars 
were apt, and the lessons sunk deeply; and thus it came 
that our country was always free ; it could not be other than 
free. 

As deeply seated as was the principle of liberty and resist- 
ance to arbitrary power, in the breasts of the Puritans, it 
was not more so than their piety and sense of religious obli- 
gation. They were emphatically a people, whose God was 
the Lord. Their form of government was as strictly theo- 
cratical, if direct communication be excepted, as was that of 
the Jews ; insomuch that it would be difficult to say where 
there was any civil authority among them entirely distinct 
from ecclesiastical jurisdiction. 

Whenever a few of them settled a town, they immediately 
gathered themselves into a church ; and their elders were 
magistrates, and their code of laws was the Pentateuch. 
These were forms, it is true, but forms which faithfully in- 
dicated principles and feelings ; for no people could have 
adopted such forms, who were not thoroughly imbued with 
the spirit, and bent on the practice, of religion. 

God was their King ; and they regarded him as truly and 
literally so, as if he had dwelt in a visible palace in the midst 
of their state. They were his devoted, resolute, humble 
subjects ; they undertook nothing which they did not beg of 
him to prosper ; they accomplished nothing without render- 
ing to him the praise ; they suffered nothing without carry- 
ing up their sorrows to his throne ; they ate"^ nothing which 
they did not implore him to bless. 

Their piety was not merely external ; it was sincere ; it 
had the proof of a good tree, in bearing good fruit ; it pro- 
duced and sustained a strict morality. Their tenacious pu- 
rity of manners and speech obtained for them, in the mother 

* Pron. et. 



216 NATIONAL READER. 

country, their name of Puritans ; which, though given in 
derision, was as honourable a one as was ever bestowed by 
man on man. , 

That there were hypocrites among them, is not to be 
doubted ; but they were rare ; the men who voluntarily ex- 
iled themselves to an unknown coast, and endured there 
every toil and hardship for conscience' sake, and that they 
might serve God in their own manner, were not likely to set 
conscience at defiance, and make the service of God a mock- 
ery ; they were not likely to be, neither were they, hypo- 
crites. I do not know that it would be arrogating too much 
for them to say, that, on the extended surface of the globe, 
there was not a single community of men to be compared 
with them, in the respects of deep religious impressions, and 
an exact performance of moral duty. 



LESSON CXV. 
The same, concluded. 



V7hat I would especially inculcate is, that, estimating as 
impartially as we are able the virtues and defects of our 
forefathers' character, we should endeavour to imitate the 
first, and avoid the last. 

Were they tenderly jealous of their inborn rights, and resolv- 
ed to maintain them, in spite of the oppressor ? And shall 
we ever be insensible to their value, and part with the vigi- 
lance which should watch, and the courage which should de- 
fend them ? Rather let the ashes of our fathers, which have 
been cold so long, warm and quicken in their graves, and 
return imbodied to the surface, and drive away their degene- 
rate sons from the soil which their toils and sufferings pur- 
chased ! 

Rather let the beasts of the wilderness come back to a wil- 
derness, and couch for prey in our desolate gardens, and 
bring forth their young in our marts, and howl nightly to 
the moon, amidst the grass-grown ruins of our prostrate 
cities ! Rather let the red sons of the forest reclaim their 
pleasant hunting grounds, and rekindle the council fires 
which once threw their glare upon the eastern water, and 
roam ovei* our hills and plains, without crossing a single 
track of the white man ! 



M^ 



NATIONAL READER. 217 

I am no advocate for war. I abominate its spirit and its 
cruelties. But to me there appears a wide and essential 
difference between resistance and aggression. It is aggres- 
sion, it is the love of arbitrary domination, it is the insane 
thirst for what the world has too long and too indiscrimi- 
nately called glory, which light up the flames of war and 
devastation. 

Without aggression on the one side, no resistance would 
be roused on the other, and there would be no war. And if 
all aggression was met by determined resistance, then, too, 
there Avould be no Avar; for the spirit of aggression would 
be humbled and repressed. I would that it might be the 
universal principle of our countrymen, and the determina- 
tion of our rulers, never to offer the slightest injury, never to 
commit the least outrage, though it were to obtain territory, 
or fame, or any selfish advantage. 

In this respect I would that the example which was some- 
times set by our forefathers, might be altogether forsaken. 
But let us never forsake their better example of stern resist- 
ance ; let us cherish and perpetuate their lofty sentiments 
of freedom; let us tread the soil which they planted for us 
as free as they did, or lie down at once beside them. 

" The land we from our fathers had in trust 

We to our children will transmit, or die. 

This is our maxim, this our piety, 

And God and nature say that it is just. 

That which we would perform in arms, we must ! 

We read the dictate in the infant's eye, 

In the wife's smile, and in the placid sky, 

And at our feet, amid the silent dust 

Of them that were before us." 

Our fathers were pious — eminently so. Let us forever 
venerate and imitate this part of their character. When 
the children of the pilgrims forget that Being, who was the 
pilgrim's Guide and Deliverer ; when the descendants of the 
Puritans cease to acknowledge, and obey, and love that 
Being, for whose service the Puritans forsook all that men 
chiefly love, enduring scorn and reproach, exile and poverty, 
and finding at last a superabundant reward ; when the sons 
of a religious and holy ancestry fall away from its high 
communion, and join themselves to the assemblies of the 
profane; — they have stained the lustre of their parentage; 
they have forfeited the dear blessings of their inheritance ; 
and they deserve to be cast out from this fair land without 
19 



218 NATIONAL READER. 

even a wilderness for their refuge. No ! Let us still keep 
the ark of God in the midst of us ; let us adopt the prayer 
of the wise monarch of Israel, — " The Lord our God be with 
us, as he was with our fathers ; let him not leave us, nor 
forsake us ; that he may incline our hearts unto him, to walk 
in all his ways, and to keep his commandments, and his .^_ , 
statutes, and his judgements, which he commanded ourlB 
fathers." W 

But our fathers were too rigidly austere. It may be 
thought, that, even granting this to be their fault, we are so 
rapidly advancing tov/ard an opposite extreme, that any thing 
like a caution against it is out of season, and superfluous. 
And yet I see not why the notice of every fault should not 
be accompanied with a corresponding caution. 

That we are in danger of falling into one excess, is a rea- 
son why we should be most anxiously on our guard at the 
place of exposure ; but it is no reason why another excess 
should not be reprobated, and pointed out with the finger of 
warning. The difnculty is, and the desire and eJEfort should 
be, between these, as well as all other extremes, to steer an 
equal course, and preserve a safe medium. 

I acknowledge that luxury, and the blandishments of pros- 
perity and wealth, are greatly to be feared ; and if our soft- 
nesses, and indulgences, and foreign fashions, must, inevita- 
bly, accomplish our seduction, and lead us away from the 
simplicity, honesty, sobriety, purity, and manly independence 
of our forefathers, most readily and fervently would I ex- 
claim, Welcome back to the pure old times of the Puritans ! 
welcome back to the strict observances of their strictest days ! 
welcome, thrice welcom.e, to all their severity, all their 
gloom ! for infinitely better would be hard doctrines and 
dark brows, Jewish Sabbaths, strait garments, formal man- 
ners, and a harsh guardianship, than dissoluteness and ef- 
feminacy ; than empty pleasures and shameless debauch- 
ery ; than lolling ease, and pampered pride, and fluttering 
vanity ; than unprincipled, faithless, corrupted rulers, and a 
people unworthy of a more exalted government. 
, But is it necessary that We must be either gloomy or cor- 
rupt, either formal or profane, either extravagant in strict- 
ness, or extravagant in dissipation and levity ? Can we not 
so order our habits, and so fix our principles, as not to suf- 
fer the luxuries of our days to choke, and strangle, with 
their rankness, the simple morality of our fathers' days, nor 
permit a reverence for their stiff and inappropriate form.ali- 



NATIONAL READER. 219 

ties and austerities to overshadow and repress our innocent 
comforts and delights ? 

Let us attempt, at least, to maintain ourselves in so desira- 
ble a medium. Let us endeavour to preserve v^hatever was 
excellent in the manners and lives of the Puritans, while we 
forsake what was inconsistent or unreasonable ; and then 
we shall hardly fail to be wiser and happier, and even better, 
than they were. 



LESSON CXVL 



Extract from the Speech of W. Pitt, Earl of Chatham, in 
the British Parliament, January, 1775. 

My lords — I rise with astonishment to see these papers 
brought to your table at so late a period of this business ; — 
papers, to tell us what ? Why, what all the world knew 
before ; that the Americans, irritated by repeated injuries, 
and stripped of their inborn rights and dearest privileges, 
have resisted, and entered into associations for the preser- 
vation of their common liberties. 

Had the early situation of the people of Boston been at- 
tended to, things would not have come to this. But the 
infant complaints of Boston were literally treated like the 
capricious squalls of a child, who, it was said, did not know 
whether it was aggrieved or not. But, full well I knew, at 
that time, that this child, if not redressed, would soon as- 
sume the courage and voice of 2i man. Full well L knew, 
that the sons of ancestors, born under the same free consti- 
tution, and once breathing the same liberal air, as English- 
men, would resist upon the same principles, and on the sam.e 
occasions. 

What has government done ? They have sent an armed 
force, consisting of seventeen thousand men, to dragoon' the 
Bostonians into what is called their duty ; and, so far from 
once turning their eyes to the impolicy and destructive con- 
sequence of this scheme, are constantly sending out more 
troops. And we are told, in the language of menace, that, 
if seventeen thousand men won't do, fifty thousand shall. 

It is true, my lords, with this force, they may ravage the 
country, waste and destroy as they march ; but, in the pro- 
gress of fifteen hundred miles, can they occupy the places 



220 • NATIONAL READER. 

they have passed ? Will not a country, which can produce 
three millions of people, ^vronged and insulted as they are, 
start up, like hydras, in every corner, and gather fresh 
strength from fresh opposition ? Nay, what dependence 
can you ha\^e upon the soldiery, the unhappy engines of 
your wrath ? They are Englishmen, who must feel for the 
privileges of Englishmen. Do you think that these men 
can turn their arms against their brethren ? Surely not. 
A victory must be to them a defeat ; and carnage, a sa- 
crifice. 

But it is not merely three millions of people, the pro- 
duce of America, we have to contend with, in this unnatu- 
ral struggle ; many more are on their side, dispersed over 
the face of this wide empire. Every whig in this country 
and in Ireland is with them. Who, then, let me demand, 
has given, and continues to give, this strange and unconsti- 
tutional advice ? I do not mean to level at any one man, 
or any particular set of men ; but, thus much I will venture 
to declare, that, if his majesty continues to hear such coun- 
sellors, he will not only be badly advised, but undone. He 
may continue, indeed, to wear his crown ; but it will not be 
worth his wearing. Robbed of so principal a jewel as Ame- 
rica, it will lose its lustre, and no longer beam that efful- 
gence, which should irradiate the brow of m.ajest}?-. 

In this alarming crisis, I come, with this paper in my 
hand, to offer you the best of my experience and advice ; 
which is, that an humble petition be presented to his majes- 
ty, beseeching him, that, in order to open the way towards 
a happy settlement of the dangerous troubles in America, 
it may graciously please him, that immediate orders be given 
to General Gage for removing his majesty's forces from the 
town of Boston. 

And this, my lords, upon the most mature and deliberate 
grounds, is the best advice I can give you, at this juncture. 
Such conduct will convince America that you mean to try 
her cause in the spirit oi freedom and inquiry^ and not in let- 
ters of blood. There is no time to be lost. Every hour is 
big with danger. Perhaps, while I am now speaking, the 
decisive blow is struck, which may involve millions in the 
consequence. And, believe me, the very first drop of blood 
which is shed, will cause a wound which may never be 
healed. 



NATIONAL READER. 221 



LESSON CXVII. 

Extract from the Speech of Patrick Henry, in the Conven- 
tion of Delegates of Virginia, in Support of his Resolution 
for putting the Colony into a State of Defence, and for 
arming and disciplining a number of Men sufficient for 
that Purpose : — 23^ March, 1775. 

Mr. president — It is natural for man to indulge in the 
illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a 
painful truth ; and listen to the song of that syren till she 
transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, en- 
gaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty ? Are we 
disposed to be of the number of those, who, having eyes, 
see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so 
nearly concern their temporal salvation ? For my part, 
whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to 
know the v/hole truth ; to know the worst, and to provide 
for it. 

I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided ; and 
that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judg- 
ing of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, 
I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the 
British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes 
with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace them- 
selves and the house ? Is it that insidious smile, with v/hich 
our petition has been lately received ? Trust it not, sir ; it 
will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be 
betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious re- 
ception of our petition comports with those warlike prepara- 
tions, which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets 
and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation ? 
Have we shown ourselves so unvvdlling to be reconciled, that 
force must be called in to win back our love ? Let us not 
deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war 
and subjugation — the last arguments to which kings resort. 
I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its 
purpose be not to force us to submission ? Can gentlemen 
assign any other possible motive for it ? Has Great Britain 
any enemy, in this quarter of the world, to call for all this 
accumulation of navies and armies ? No, sir, she has none. 
They are meant for us : they can be meant for no other. 
Thiey are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains, 
19^ 



222 NATIONAL READER. 

which the British ministry have been so long forging. And 
what have we to oppose to them ? Shall we try argument ? 
Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have 
we any thing new to offer upon the subject ? Nothing. 
We have held the subject up in every light of which it is 
capable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to 
entreaty and humble supplication ? What terms shall we 
find, which have not been already exhausted ? Let us not, 
I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have 
done every thing that could be done, to avert the storm 
which is now coming on. §We have petitioned; we have re- 
monstrated ; we have supplicated ; we have prostrated our- 
selves before the throne, and have implored its interposition 
to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parlia- 
ment. Our petitions have been slighted ; our remonstrances 
have produced additional violence and insult ; our suppli- 
- cations have been disregarded ; and we have been spurned, 
with contempt, from the foot of the throne. In vain, after 
these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and 
reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If 
we wish to be free ; if we mean to preserve inviolate those 
inestimable privileges, for which we have been so long con- 
tending ; if we mean not basely to abandon the noble strug- 
gle, in which we have been so long engaged, and which we 
have pledged ourselves never to abandon, until the glorious 
object of our contest shall be obtained — we must fight ! — I 
repeat it, sir, we must fight ! An appeal to arms, and to 
the God of hosts, is all that is left us. They tell us, sir, 
diat we are weak — unable to cope with so formidable an 
adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? Will it be 
the next week, or the next year ? Will it be when we are* 
totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be station- 
ed in every house ? Shall we gather strength by irresolu- 
tion and inaction ? Shall we acquire the means of effectual 
resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hug-ging the 
delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have 
bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we 
make a proper use of those means which the God of nature 
hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed 
in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that 
which we possess, are invincible by any force which our 
enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight 
our battles alone. There is a just God, who presides over 
the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to 

•1. 



I 



NATIONAL READER. 223 

fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong 
alone ; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, 
sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire 
it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is 
no retreat, but in submission and slavery ! Our chains are 
forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of 
Boston ! The war is inevitable — and let it come ! — I repeat 
it, sir, let it come ! 

It is vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may 
cry. Peace, peace — ^but there is no peace. The war is ac- 
tually begun ! 

The next gale, that sweeps from the north, will bring to 
our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren are 
already in the field ! Why stand we here idle ! What is it 
that gentlemen wish ? what would they have ? Is life so 
dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of 
chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God. — I know 
not what course others may take, but, as for me, give me 
liberty or give me death ! 



LESSON CXVIII. 



Account of the first hostile Attack upon the America?! Colo- 
nists, by the British Troops, in the War of the Revolution,^ at 
Lexington and Concord, Mass. \9th April, 1775. — Botta. 

War being every moment expected, the particular fate of 
the inhabitants of Boston had become the object of general 
solicitude. The garrison was formidable ; the fortifications 
were carried to perfection ; and little hope remained, that this 
city would be wrested from British domination. Nor could 
the citizens flatter themselves more with the hope of escap- 
ing by sea ; as the port was blockaded by a squadron. 

Thus confined, amidst an irritated soldiery, the Bostoni- 
ans found themselves exposed to endure all the outrages 
to be apprehended from military license. Their city had 
become a close prison, and themselves no better than hos- 
tages in the hands of the British commanders. This conside- 
ration alone sufiiced greatly to impede all civil and military 
operations projected by the Americans. 

Various expedients were suggested, in order to extricate 
the Bostonians from this embarrassing situation ; which, if 



224 NATIONAL READER. 

they evinced no great prudence, certainly demon'strated no 
ordinary obstinacy. Some advised, that all the inhabitants 
of Boston should abandon the city, and take refuge in other 
places, where they should be succoured at the public ex- 
pense : but this design was totally impracticable, since it de- 
pended on General Gage to prevent its execution. 

Others recommended, that a valuation should be made of 
the houses and furniture belonging to the inhabitants ; that 
the city should then be fired ; and that all the losses should 
be reimbursed from the public treasure. After mature de- 
liberation, this project was also pronounced not only very 
difficult, but absolutely impossible to be executed. 

Many inhabitants, however, left the city privately, and 
withdrew into the interior of the country ; some, from dis- 
gust at this species of captivity ; others, from fear of the ap- 
proaching hostilities ; and others, finally, from apprehensions 
of being questioned for acts against the government : but a 
great number, also, with a firm resolution, preferred to re- 
main, and brave all consequences whatever. 

The soldiers of the garrison, weary of their long confine- 
ment, desired to sally forth, and drive away these rebels, 
who intercepted their provisions, and for whom they cherish- 
ed so profound a contempt. The inhabitants of Massachu- 
setts, on the other hand, were proudly indignant at this 
opinion of their cowardice, entertained by the soldiers ; and 
panted for an occasion to prove, by a signal vengeance, the 
falsehood of the reproach. 

In the m.ean time, the news arrived of the king's speech 
at the opening of parliament ; of the resolutions adopted by 
this body ; and, finally, of the act by which the inhabitants 
of Massachusetts were declared rebels. All the province 
flew to arms : indignation became fury, — obstinacy, despe- 
ration. All idea of reconciliation had become chimerical : 
necessity stimulated the most timid ; a thirst of vengeance 
fired every breast. The match is lighted, — the materials 
disposed, — the conflagration impends. The children are 
prepared to combat against their fathers ; citizens against 
citizens ; and, as the Americans declared, the friends of 
liberty against its oppressors, — against the founders of ty- 
ranny. 

" In these arms," said they, " in our right hands, are 
placed the hope of safety, the existence of country, the de- 
fence of property, the honour of our wives and daughters. 
With these alone can we repulse a licentious soldiery, pro- 



NATIONAL READER. . 225 

tect what man holds dearest upon earth, and, unimpaired, 
transmit our rights to our descendants. The world will 
admire our courage ; all good men will second us with their 
wisTies and prayers, and celebrate our names with immortal 
praises. Our memory will become dear to posterity. It 
will be the example, as the hope, of freemen, and the dread 
of tyrants, to the latest ages. It is time that old and con- 
taminated England should be made acquainted with the 
energies of America, in the prime and innocence of her 
youth : it is time she should Jcnow how much superior are 
our soldiers, in courage and constancy, to vile mercenaries. 
We must look back no more ! We must conquer, or die ! 
We are placed between altars smoking with the most grate- 
ful incense of glory and gratitude, on the one part, and blocks 
and dungeons on the other. Let each, then, rise, and gird"^ 
himself for the combat. t The dearest interests of this world 
command it : our most holy religion enjoins it : that God, 
who eternally rewards the virtuous, and punishes the wick- 
ed, ordains it. Let us accept these happy auguries ; for 
already the mercenary sat'ellites, sent by wicked ministers to 
reduce this innocent people to extremity, are imprisoned 
within the walls of a single city, where hunger emaciates 
them, rage devours them, death consumes them. Let us 
banish every fear, every alarm : fortune smiles upon the 
efforts of the brave !" 

By similar discourses, they excited one another, and pre- 
pared themselves for defence. The fatal moment is arrived : 
the signal of civil war is given. 

General Gage was informed, that the provincials had 
amassed large quantities of arms and ammunition, in the 
towns of Worcester and Concord ; which last is eighteen 
miles distant from the city of Boston. Excited by the loy- 
alists, who had persuaded him that he would find no resist- 
ance, considering the cowardice of the patriots, and, perhaps, 
not imagining that the sword would be drawn so soon, he 
resolved to send a few companies to Concord, in order to 
seize the military stores deposited there, and transport them 
to Boston, or destroy them. 

It was said, also, that he had it in view, by this sudden ex- 
pedition, to get possession of the persons of John Hancock 
and Samuel Adams, two of the most ardent patriot chiefs, 
and the principal directors of the provincial congress, then 

* Pron. gerd. t cum'-bat. 



226 NATIONAL READER. 

assembled in the town of Concord. But, to avoid exciting 
irritation, and the popular tumults, which might have ob- 
structed his design,^ he resolved to act with caution, and in 
the shade of mystery. 

Accordingly, he ordered the grenadiers, and several com- 
panies of light infantry, to hold themselves in readiness to 
march out of the city, at the first signal ; adding, that it was 
in order to pass review, and execute different manoeuvres 
and military evolutions. The Bostonians entertained suspi- 
cions, and sent to warn Adams and Hancock to be upon 
their guard. The committee of public safety gave direc- 
tions, that the arms and ammunition should be distributed 
about in different places. 

Meanwhile, General Gage, to proceed with more secrecy, 
commanded a certain number of officers, who had been made 
acquainted with his designs, to go, as if on a party of plea- 
sure, and dine at Cambridge, which is situated very near 
Boston, and upon the road to Concord. It was on the 18th 
of April, in the evening, that these officers dispersed them- 
selves here and there upon the road and passages, to inter- 
cept the couriers! that might have been despatched to give 
notice of the movement of the troops. 

The governor gave orders that no person should be allow- 
ed to leave the city : nevertheless. Dr. Warren, one of 
the most active patriots, had timely intimation of the scheme, 
and immediately despatched confidential messengers ; some 
of whom found the roads interdicted by the officers that 
guarded them ; but others made their way, unperceived, to 
Lexington, a town upon the road leading to Concord. 

The intelligence was soon divulged ; the people flocked 
together ; the bells, in all parts, were rung, to give the 
alarm ; the continual firing of cannon spread the agitation 
through all the neighbouring country. In the midst of this 
tumultuous scene, at eleven in the evening, a strong detach- 
ment of grenadiers, and of light infantry, was embarked at 
Boston, and landed at a place called Phipps's Farm, — now, 
Lechmere's Point — whence they marched towards Concord. 
In this state of things, the irritation had become so intense, 
that a spark only was wanting, to produce an explosion ; as 
the event soon proved. 

* Pron, desine, not dezine. t coo'-ri-ers. 



NATIONAL READER. 227 

f 

LESSON CXIX. 

The same, concluded. 

The troops were under the command of Lieutenant-Colo- 
nel Smith, and Major Pitcairn, who led the vanguard. The 
militia of Lexington, as the intelligence of the movement 
of this detachment was uncertain, had separated in the 
course of the night. Finally, at five in the morning of the 
19th, advice was received of the near approach of the lojdl 
troops. 

The provincials that happened to be near, assembled, to 
the number of about seventy, certainly too few to have had 
the intention to engage in combat. The English appeared, 
and Major Pitcairn cried in a loud voice, " Disperse, rebels ! 
lay down your arms, and disperse!" The provincials did 
not obey ; upon whichhe sprung from the ranks, discharged 
a pistol, and, brandishing his sword, ordered his soldiers to 
fire. The provincials retreated ; the English continuing 
their fire, the former faced about to return it. 

Meanwhile, Hancock and Adams retired from danger; 
and it is related, that, while on the march, the latter, enrap- 
tured with joy, exclaimed, " Oh ! what an ever-glorious 
morning is this !" considering this first effusion of blood as 
the prel'ude of events, which must secure the happiness of 
his country. 

The soldiers advanced towards Concord. The inhabit- 
ants assembled, and appeared disposed to act upon the de- 
fensive ; but, seeing the numbers of the enemy, they fell 
back, and posted themselves on the bridge, north of the 
town, intending to wait for re-enforcements from the neigh- 
bouring places ; but the light infantry assailed them with fury, 
routed them, and occupied the bridge, whilst the others en- 
tered Concord, and proceeded to the execution of their orders. 

They spiked two pieces of twenty-four pound cannon, 
destroyed their carriages, and a number of wheels for the 
use of the artillery ; threw into the river and into wells five 
hundred pounds of bullets ; and wasted a quantity of flour, 
deposited there by the provincials. These were the arms 
and provisions which gave the first occasion to a long and 
cruel war ! 

But the expedition was not yet terminated : the minute- 
men arrived, and the forces of the provincials were increased 



228 NATIONAL READER. 

by continual accessions from every quarter. The light in- 
fantry, who scoured the country above Concord, were obliged 
to retreat, and, on entering the town, a hot skirmish ensued. 
A great number were killed on both sides. 

The light infantry having joined the main body of the de- 
tachment, the English retreated precipitately towards Lex- 
ington. Already the whole country had risen in arms, and 
the militia from all parts flew to the succour of their friends. 
Before the British detachment had arrived at Lexington, its I 
rear guard and flanks suflered great annoyance from the * 
provincials, who, posted behind the trees, walls, and frequent 
hedges, kept up a brisk fire, which the enemy could not 
return. The soldiers of the king found themselves in a most 
perilous situation. 

General Gage, apprehensive of the event, had despatched, 
in haste, under the command of Lord Percy, a re-enforcement 
of sixteen companies, with some marines,"^ and two field 
pieces. This corpst arrived very opportunely at Lexington, 
at the moment when the royal troops entered the town from j 
tiie other side, pursued with fury by the provincial militia. I 

It appears highly probable, that, without this re-enforce- 
ment, they would have been all cut to pieces, or made pri- 
soners : their strength was exhausted, as well as their am- 
munition. After making a considerable halt at Lexington, 
they renewed their march towards Boston, the number of 
the provincials increasing every moment, although the rear 
guard of the English was less molested, on account of the 
two field pieces, which repressed the impetuosity of the 
Americans. But the flanks of the column remained exposed 
to a very destructive fire, which assailed them from all the 
points that were adapted to serve as coverts. 

The royalists were also annoyed by the heat, which was 
excessive, and by a violent wind, which blew a thick dust in 
their eyes. The enemy's scouts, adding to their natural 
celerity a perfect knowledge of the country, came up unex- 
pectedly through cross roads, and galled the English severe- 
ly, taking aim especially at the officers, who, perceiving it, 
kept much on their guard. 

Finally, after a march of incredible fatigue, and a conside- 
rable loss of men, the English, overwhelmed with lassitude, 
arrived at sun-set in Charlestown. Independently of the 
combat they had sustained, the ground they had measured 

* Pron. mareens. t core. 



NATIONAL READER. 229 

that day was above five and thirty miles. The day follow- 
ing they crossed over to Boston. 

Such was the affair of Lexington, the first action which 
opened the civil war. The English soldiers, and especially 
their officers, were filled with indignation at the fortune of 
the day : they could not endure, that an undisciplined mul- 
titude, — that a flock of Yankees, as they contemptuously 
named the Americans, — should not only have maintained 
their ground against them, hut even forced them to show 
their backs, and take refuge behind the walls of a city. 

The provincials, on the contrary, felt their courage im- , 
measurably increased, since they had obtained a proof, that 
these famous troops were not invincible ; and had made so 
fortunate an essay of the goodness of their arms. 



LESSON CXX. 



Extract of an Oration delivered at Concord, Mass. 19tk 
April, 1825, in Commemoration of the Battles of Lexing- 
ton and Concord, 19tk April, 1775. — E. Everett. 

This is a proud anniversary for our neighbourhood. We 
have cause for honest complacency, that, when the distant 
citizen of our own republic, when the stranger from foreign 
lands, inquires for the spots where the noble blood of the 
revolution began to flow, where the first battle of that great 
and glorious contest was fought, he is guided through" the 
villages of Middlesex, to the plains of Lexington and Con- 
cord. It is a commemoration of our soil, to which ages, as 
they pass, will add dignity and interest ; till the names of 
Lexington and Concord, in the annals of freedom, vv'ill stand 
by the side of the most honourable names in Roman or 
Grecian story. 

It was one of those great days, one of those elemental 
occasions in the world's affairs, when the people rise, and 
act for themselves. Some organization and preparation had 
been made ; but, from the nature of the case, with scarce 
any effect on the events of that day. It may be doubted, 
whether there was an efficient order given, the Vv'hole day, 
to any body of men as large as a regiment. It was the peo- 
ple, in their first capacity, as citizens and as freemen, start- 
ing from their beds at midnight, from their firesides, and 
20 



230 NATIONAL READER. 

from their fields, to take their own cause into their' own 
hands. Such a spectacle is the height of the moral sublime ; 
when the want of every thing is fully made up by the spirit 
of the cause ; and the soul within stands in place of disci- 
pline, organization, resources. In the prodigious efforts of 
a veteran army, beneath the dazzling splendor of their ar- 
ray, there is something revdlting to the reflective mind. 
The ranks are filled with the desperate, the mercenary, the 
depraved ; an iron slavery, by the name of subordination, 
merges the free will of one hundred thousand men in the 
unqualified despotism of one ; the humanity, mercy, and 
remorse, which scarce ever desert the individual bosom, are 
sounds without a meaning to that fearful, ravenous, irration- 
al monster of prey, a mercenary army. It is hard to say 
who are most to be commiserated, the wretched people, on 
whom it is let loose, or the still more wretched people, whose 
substance has been sucked out, to nourish it into strength 
and fury. But, in the efforts of the people, of the people 
struggling for their rights, moving not in organized, disci- 
plined masses, but in their spontaneous action, man for man, 
and heart for heart, — though I like not war, nor any of its 
works, — there is something glorious. They can then move 
forward without orders, act together without combination, 
and brave the flaming lines of battle, without entrenchments 
to cover, or walls to shield them. No dissolute camp has 
worn off, from the feelings of the youthful soldier, the fresh- 
ness of that home, where his mother and his sisters sit wait- 
ing, with tearful eyes and aching hearts, to hear good news 
from the wars ; no long service in the ranks of a conqueror 
has turned the veteran's heart into marble ; their valour 
springs not from recklessness, from habit, from indifference 
to the preservation of a life, knit by no pledges to the life 
of others. But in the strength and spirit of the cause alone 
they act, they contend, they bleed. In this, they conquer. 
The people always conquer. They always must conquer. 
Armies may be defeated; kings may be overthrown, and 
new dy'nasties imposed, by foreign arms, on an ignorant and 
slavish race, that care not in what language the covenant 
of their subjection runs, nor in whose name the deed of 
their barter and sale is made out. But the people never in- 
vade ; and when they rise against the invader, are never 
subdued. If they are driven from the plains, they fly to 
the mountains. Steep rocks, and everlasting hills, are their 
castles ; the tangled, pathless thicket their palisado ; and 



II 



NATIONAL READER. 231 

nature, — God, is their ally. Now he overwhelms the hosts 
of their enemies beneath his drifting mountains of sand > 
now he buries them beneath a falling atmosphere of polar 
snows ; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets ; he puts a 
folly into their counsels, a madness into the hearts of their 
leaders ; and he never gave, and he never will give, a fall 
and final triumph over a virtuous, gallant people, resolved 
to be free. 



LESSON CXXI. 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. — Gray. 

The curfew tolls — the knell of parting day ; — 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds ; 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
' Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed. 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 



232 NATIONAL READER. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ;_ 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await, alike, the inevitable hour ; — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 

, Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid 

Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire; 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But KnoAvledge to their eyes her arilple page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er-unrol ; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 



&' 



Full many a gem, of purest ray serene. 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 



i 



NATIONAL READER. 233 

The applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; — 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame ; 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray : 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect. 

Some frail memorial, still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their names, their years, spelled by the unlettered muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, » 

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, — 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, — 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies : 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires : 

Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries. 
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, 
Dost in these linea their artless tale relate, 

If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 
20=^ 



234 NATIONAL READER. 

Haply, some hoaiy-headed swain may say, 
"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

" Therej at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. ^» | 

"Hard by ^ron wood, now smiling, as in scorn, d . 

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; ^m 

Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, j 

L Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 1 

"One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree : 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he : 

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay. 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 



The Epitaph. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : 

Fair Science fro\^med not on his humble birth, 
And jMelancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere : 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : — 

He gave to misery all he had — a tear; 

He gained from heaven — 'twas all he "wished — a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, — 

(There they, alike, in trembling hope, repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



NATIONAL READER. 235 

LESSON CXXII. 

The Grave of Korner. — Mrs. Hem'ans. 

Charles Theodore Korner, the young German poet and soldier, was 
killed in a skirmish with a detachment of Frencn troops, on the 26th 
of August, 1813, a few hours after the composition of his most popular 
piece, "The Sword Song." He was buried under a beautiful oak, in a 
recess of which he had frequently deposited verses composed by him while 
campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected to his memory, be- 
neath this tree, is of cast iron, and the upper part is wrought into a lyre 
and s^Dord, a favourite emblem of Korner's, from which one of his works 
had been entitled. 

Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for 
his loss, having survived him only long enough to complete his portrait, 
and a drawing of his burial place. Over the gate of the cemetery is en- 
graved one of his own lines, "Forget not the faithful dead.'' 

Green wave the oak forever o'er thy rest ! 

Thou thE.t beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, 
And, in the stilhiess of thy country's breast, 

Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest : 
Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was poured. 
Thou of the lyre and sword ! 

Rest, bard ! rest, soldier ! By the father's hand 
Here shall the child of after-years be led, 

With his wreath-offering silently to stand 

In the hushed presence of the glorious dead, — 

Soldier and bard ! — For thou thy path hast trod 
With Freedom and with God.^ 

The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite ; 

On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee ; 
And, with true hearts, thy brethren of the fight 

Wept as they vailed their drooping banners o'er thee ; 
And the deep guns, with rolling peal, gave token 
That lyre and sword were broken. 

^, Thou hast a hero's tomb ! — A lowlier bed 

Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying, 
The gentle girl, that bowed her fair young head, 
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 
Brother ! — true friend ! — the tender and- the brave ! 
She pined to share thy grave. 

* The poems of Korner, which were chiefly devoted to the cause of his 
country, are strikingly distinguished by religious feeling, and a confidence 
in the Supreme Justice for the final deliverance of Germany. 



236 NATIONAL READER. 

Fame was thy gift from others ; — ^but for her, — 
To whom the wide earth held that only spot, — 

She loved thee ! — lovely in your lives ye were, 
And in your early deaths divided not. 

Thou hast thine oak — thy trophy — ^what hath she ? 
Her own blessed place by thee. 

It' was thy spirit, brother ! which had made 

The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, 

Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye played, 
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. 

Ye were but two ! — and, when that spirit passed, 
Wo for the one, the last ! 

Wo : — ^yet not long : — she lingered but to trace 

Thine image from the image in her breast ; — 
Once, once again, to see that buried face 
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. 
. Too sad a smile ! — its living light was o'er; 
It answered hers no more ! 

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, 
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled : 

What, then, was left for her, the faithful-hearted ? 
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead ! 

Softly she perished. Be the flower deplored 
Here, with the lyre and sword. 

Have ye not met ere now? So let those trust, 
That meet for moments but to part for years. 

That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust. 
That love, where love is but a fount of tears ! 

Brother ! sweet sister ! peace around ye dwell ! 
Lyre, sword, aiid flower, — farewell ! 



LESSON CXXIIL 

God^s first Temples — A Hymn. — Bryant. 

The groves MJ-ere God's first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave. 
And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed 



NATIONAL READER. 237 

The lofty v ult, to gather and roll back 

The sound of anthems, — in the darkling wood, 

Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down 

And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 

And supplication. For his simple heart 

Migfht not resist the sacred influences, 

That, from the stilly twilight of the place, 

And from the gray old trunks, that high in heaven. 

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 

Of the invisible breath, that swayed at once 

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 

His spirit with the thought of "boundless Power 

And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why 

Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 

God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 

Only among the crowd, and under roofs 

That our frail hands have raised ! Let me, at least, 

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 

Offer one hymn ; thrice happy, if it find 

Acceptance in his ear. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun. 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze. 
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
Among their branches ; till, at last, they stood. 
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
Conmiunion with his Maker. Here are seen 
No traces of man's pomp or pride ; no silks 
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes 
Encounter ; no fantastic carvings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 
Of thy fair works. But thou art here ; thou fill'st 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
That run along the summits of these trees 
In music ; thou art in the cooler breath. 
That, from the inmost darkness of the place. 
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, - 
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 
Here is continual worship ; nature, here. 



238 NATIONAL READER. 



~>b!k- 



In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around. 

From perch to perch, the solitary bird 

Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, 

Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots 

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 

Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 

Thyself without a witness, in these shades. 

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, 

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — 

By whose immoveable stem I stand, and seem 

Almost annihilated — ^not a prince, 

In all the proud old world beyond the deep, 

E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 

Wears the green coronal of leaves, with which 

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower 

With scented breath, and look so like a smile, 

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould. 

An emanation of the indwelling Life, 

A visible token of the upholding Love, 

That are the soul of this wide universe. ' 

My heart is awed within me, when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on. 
In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works, I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo ! all grow old and die : but see, again, 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth — 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly than their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. 0, there is not lost 
One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet^ 
After the flight of untold centuries. 
The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
Of his arch enemy Death ; yea, seats himself 
Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, 
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 



ii 



NATIONAL READER. 239 

There have been holy men, who hid themselves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
The generation born with them, nor seemed 
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them ; and there have been holy men, 
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
But let me often to these solitudes 
Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure 
My feeble virtue. Here, its enemies, 
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps, shrink. 
And tremble, and are still. O God ! when thou 
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill 
With all the waters of the firmament. 
The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, 
And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities ; — Avho forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power. 
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? 
0, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine ; nor let us need the wrath 
Of the mad, unchained elements to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 
And, to the beautiful order of thy works, 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



LESSON CXXIV. 

Hymn of Nature. — Peabody. 

God of the earth's extended plains ! 

The dark green fields contented lie : 
The mountains rise like holy towers, 

Where man might com'mune with the sky 
The tall cliff challenges the storm 

That lowers upon the vale below, 
Where shaded fountains send their streams, 

With joyous music in their flow. 



240 NATIONAL READER. 

God of the dark and heavy deep ! 

The waves lie sleeping on the sands, 
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm 

Hath summoned up their thundering bands ; 
Then the v^hite sails are dashed like foam, 

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, 
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale 

Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. 

God of the forest's solemn shade ! 

The grandeur of the lonely tree, 
That wrestles singly with the gale, 

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; 
But more majestic far they stand, 

When, side by side, their ranks they form, 
To wave on high their plumes of green, 

And fight their battles with the storm. 

God of the light and viewless air! 

Where summer breezes sweetly flow. 
Or, gathering in their angry might, 

The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; 
All — from the evening's plaintive sigh. 

That hardly lifts the drooping flower. 
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — 

Breathe forth the language of thy power. 

God of the fair and open sky ! 

How gloriously above us springs 
The tented dome, of heavenly blue, 

Suspended on the rainboAv's rings ; 
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through. 

Each gilded cloud, that wanders free 
In evening's purple radiance, gives 

The beauty of its praise to thee. 

God of the rolling orbs above ! 

Thy name is written clearly bright 
In the warm day's unvarying blaze, 

Or evening's golden shower of light. 
For every fire that fronts the sun, 

And every spark that Avalks alone 
Around the utmost verge of heaven. 

Were kindled at thy burning throne. , 



NATIONAL READER. 241 

God of the world! the hour must come, 

And nature's self to dust return ! 
Her crumbling altars must decay ! 

Her incense fires shall cease to burn ! 
But still her grand and lovely scenes 

Have made man's warmest praises flow ; 
For hearts grow holier as they trace 

The beauty of the world below. 



LESSON CXXV. 

Lines on revisiting the Country. — Bryant. 

I STAND upon my native hills again, 

Broad, round, and green, that, in the southern sky, 
"With garniture of waving grass and grain, 

Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie ; 
While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, 
Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. 

A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near. 
And ever-restless steps of one, who now 

Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year : 
There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow, 

As breaks the varied scene upon her sight. 

Upheaved, and spread in verdure and in light : 

For I have taught her, with delighted eye. 
To gaze upon the mountains ; to behold, 

With deep affection, the pure, ample sky. 
And clouds along the blue abysses rolled ; 

To love the song of waters, and to hear 

The melody of winds with charmed ear. 

Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat. 
Its horrid sounds and its polluted air ; 

And, where the season's milder fervours beat, 
And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 

The song of bird and sound of running stream, 

Have come awhile to wander and to dream. 
21 



242 NATIONAL READER. 

Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, 
In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen ; 

The maize leaf and the maple bough but take 
From thy fierce heats a deeper, glossier green ; 

The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, 

Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away. 

The mountain wind — most spiritual thing of all 
The wide earth knows — when, in the sultry time, 

He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, 
He seems the breath of a celestial clime, — 

As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow 

Health and refreshment on the world below. 



LESSON CXXVI. 

Lines on a Bee-Hive. — Monthly Repository. 

Ye musical hounds of the fairy king, 

Who hunt for the golden dew. 
Who track for your game the green coverts of spring, 
Till the echoes, that lurk in the flower-bells, ring . 

With the peal of your elfin crew ! 

How joyous your life, if its pleasures ye knew, 

Singing ever from bloom to bloom ! 
Ye wander the summer year's paradise through, 
The souls of the flowers are the viands for you, 

And the air that you breathe perfume. 

But unenvied your joys, while the richest you miss, 

And before you no brighter life lies : 
Who would part with his cares for enjoyment like this, 
V/hen the tears, that imbitter the pure spirit's bliss. 

May be pearls in the crown of the skies ! 



LESSON CXXVIL 



Account of the Battle of Bunher''s Hill, 17th June, 1775. — 

BOTTA. 

The succours that the British expected from England 
had arrived at Boston, and, with the garrison, formed an 



NATIONAL READER. 243 

army of from ten to twelve thousand men, — all excellent 
troops. Three distinguished generals, Howe, Clinton, and 
Burgo}Tie, were at the head of these re-enforcements. Great 
events were looked for on both sides. 

The English were inflamed with desire to wash out the 
stain of Lexington : they could not endure the idea, that the 
Americans had seen them fly : it galled them to think, that 
the soldiers of the British king, renowned for their brilliant 
exploits, were now closely imprisoned within the walls of a 
city. They were desirous, at any price, of proving that their 
vaunted superiority over the herds of American militia, was 
not a vain chimera. 

Above all, they ardently desired to terminate, by some de- 
cisive stroke, this ignominious war ; and thus satisfy, . at 
once, their own glory, the expectations of their country, the 
orders, the desires, and the promises, of the ministers. But 
victory was exacted of them still more imperiously by the 
scarcity of food, which every day became more alarming ; 
for, if they must sacrifice their lives, they chose rather to 
perish by the sword than by famine. The Americans, on 
their part, were not less eager for the hour of combat to ar- 
rive : their preceding successes had stimulated their courage, 
and promised them new triumphs. 

In this state of things, the English generals deliberated 
maturely upon the most expedient mode of extricating them- 
selves from this difficult position, and placing themselves 
more at large in the country. # ^ ^ =^ 

Accordingly, they directed their views towards the pe- 
ninsula and neck of Charlestown. The American generals 
had immediate notice of it, and resolved to exert their most 
strenuous endeavours to defeat this new project of the ene- 
my. Nothing was better suited to such a purpose, than to 
fortify diligently the heights of Bunker's Hill, which com- 
manded the whole extent of the peninsula of Charlestown. 
Orders were, therefore, given to Colonel William Prescott, 
to occupy them with a detachment of a thousand men, and 
to intrench himself there by the rules of art. 

But here an error was committed, which placed the gar- 
rison of Boston in very imminent danger, and reduced the 
two parties to the necessity of coming to action immediate- 
ly. Whether he was deceived by the resemblance of name, 
or from some other motive unknown. Colonel Prescott, in- 
stead of repairing to Bunker's Hill, to fortify himself there, 
advanced farther on in the peninsula, and immediately com- 



244 NATIONAL READER. 

menced his intrenchments upon the summit of Breed's Hill, 
another eminence, which overlooks Charlesto^^ni, from the 
north-east, and is situated towards the extremity of the pe- 
ninsula, nearer to Boston. 

The works were pushed with so much ardour, that, the 
following morning, the 17th of June, by day-break, the 
Americans had already constructed a square redoubt, capable 
of affording them some shelter from the enemy's fire. The 
labour had been conducted with such silence, that the Eng- 
lish had no suspicion of what was passing. It was about 
four in the morning, when the captain of a ship of war first 
perceived it, and began to play his artillery. The report 
of the cannon attracted a multitude of spectators to the 
shore. 

The English generals doubted the testimony of their 
senses. Meanwhile, it appeared important to dislodge the 
provincials, or at least prevent them from completing the 
fortifications commenced : for, as the height of Breed's Hill 
absolutely commands Boston, the city was no longer tena- 
ble, if the Americans erected a battery upon this eminence. 

The English, therefore, opened a general fire of artillery 
from the city, the fleet, and the floating batteries stationed 
around the peninsula of Boston. It hailed a tempest of bombs 
and balls upon the works of the Americans : they were espe- 
cially incommoded by the fire of a battery planted upon an 
eminence named Copp's Hill, which, situated within the city, 
overlooks Charlesto^vn from the south, and is but three 
fourths of a mile distant from Breed's Hill. 

But all this was without effect. The Americans continu- 
ed to work with unshaken constancy; and, by noon, they 
had much advanced a trench, which descended from the re- 
doubt to the foot of the hill, and almost to the bank of 
Mystic River. The fury of the enemy's artillery, it is true, 
had prevented them from carrying it to perfection. 

In this conjuncture, there remained no alternative for the 
English generals, but to drive the Americans, by dint of 
force, from this formidable position. This resolution was 
taken without hesitation ; and it was followed by the action 
of Breed's Hill, known also by the name of Bunker's Hill ; 
much reno^vned for intrepidity, not to say the temerity, of 
the two parties ; for the number of the dead and wounded ; 
and for the effect it produced upon the opinions of men, in 
regard to the valour of the Americans, and the probable issue 
of the whole war. 



NATIONAL READER. 245 

The right wing of the Americans was flanked by the 
houses of Charlestown, which they occupied ; and the part 
of this wing, which was connected with the main body, was 
defended by the redoubt erected upon Breed's Hill. The 
centre, and the left wing, formed themselves behind the 
trench, which, foUoAving the declivity of the hill, extended 
towards, but without reaching, Mystic River. 

The American officers, observing that the weakest part 
of their line was precisely this extremity of the left wing, — 
for the trench not extending to the river, and the land in 
this place being smooth and nearly level, there was danger 
of that wing's being turned, and attacked in the rear, — 
caused the passage, between the extreme left and the river, 
to be obstructed, by setting down two parallel palisades, or 
ranges of fence, and filling up the space between them with 
new-mown grass. 

The troops of Massachusetts occupied Charlestown, the 
redoubt, and a part of the trench ; those of Connecticut, com- 
manded by Captain Nolten, and those of New Hampshire, 
under Colonel Starke, the rest of the trench. A few mo- 
ments before the action commenced. Doctor Warren, — a 
man of great authority, and a zealous patriot, — who had 
been appointed general, arrived with some re-enforcements. 
General Pomeroy made his appearance at the same time. 
The first joined the troops of his own province, Massachu- 
setts ; the second took command of those from Connecti- 
cut. General Putnam directed in chief, and held himself 
ready to repair to any point where his presence should be 
most wanted. 

The Americans had no cavalr}^. Their artillery, without 
being very numerous, was, nevertheless, competent. They 
wanted not for muskets ; but the greater part of these were 
without bayonets. Their sharp-shooters, for want of rifles, 
were obliged to use common firelocks ; but as marksmen 
they had no equals. Such were the means of the Ameri- 
cans ; but their hope was great, and they were all impatient 
for the signal of combat. 

Between mid-day and one o'clock, the heat being intense, 
all was in motion in the British camp. A multitude of sloops 
and boats, filled with soldiers, left the shore of Boston, and 
stood for Charlesto^\Ti : they landed at Moreton's Point, 
about half a mile south-east of the summit of Breed's 
Hill, without meeting resistance ; as the ships of war and 
armed vessels eflectually protected the debarkation by the 
21=^ 



246 NATIONAL READER. 

fire of their artillery, which forced the enemy to keep within 
his intrenchments. 

This corps consisted of ten companies of grenadiers, as 
many of light infantry, and a proportionate artillery ; the 
whole under the command of Major-general Howe and Briga- 
dier-general Pig'ot. The troops, on landing, began to dis- 
play, the light infantry upon the right, the grenadiers upon 
the left : — ^but, having observed the strength of the position, 
and the good countenance of the Americans, General Howe 
made a halt, and sent for a re-enforcement. 



LESSON CXXVIII. 

The same^ concluded. 



On being re-enforced, the English formed themselves in 
two columns. Their plan was, that the left wing, under 
General Pigot, should attack the rebels in Charlestown, 
while the centre should assault the redoubt, and the right 
wing, consisting of light infantry, force the passage near the 
River Mystic, and thus assail the Americans in flank and 
rear ; which would have given the English a complete vic- 
tory. It appears, also, that General Gage had formed the 
design of setting fire to Charlestown, when evacuated by the 
enemy, in order that the corps destined to assail the redoubt, 
thus protected by the flame and smoke,. might be less exposed 
to the fire of the provincials. 

The dispositions having all been completed, the English 
put themselves in motion. The provincials that were sta- 
tioned to defend Charlesto\^^l, fearing lest the assailants 
should penetrate between this town and the redoubt, and cut 
them off from the rest of the army, retreated. The left wing 
of the English army immediately entered the town, and fired 
the buildings : as they were of wood, in a moment the com- 
bustion became general. 

The centre of the British force continued a slow march 
against the redoubt and trench ; halting, from time to time, 
for the artillery to come up, and act with some effect, pre- 
vious to the assault. The flames and smoke of Charlestown 
were of no use to them, as the wind turned them in a con- 
trary direction. Their gradual advance, and the extreme 
clearness of the air, permitted the Americans to level their 



NATIONAL READER. ' 247 

muskets. They, however, suffered the enemy to approach, 
before they commenced their fire ; and waited for the assault 
in profound tranquillity. 

It would be difficult to paint the scene of terror present- 
ed by the actual circumstances ; — a large town, all enve- 
loped in flames, which, excited by a violent wind, rose to an 
immense height, and spread every moment more and more ; — 
an innumerable multitude, rushing from all parts, to witness 
so unusual a spectacle, and see the issue of the sanguinary 
conflict that was about to commence ; — the Bostonians, and 
soldiers of the garrison, not in actual service, mounted upon 
the spires, upon the roofs, and upon the heights ; — and the 
hills, and circumjacent fields, from which the dread arena 
could be viewed in safety, covered with swarms of spec- 
tators of every rank, and age, and sex ; each agitated by fear 
or hope, according to the party he espoused. 

The English having advanced within reach of musketrj'-, 
the Americans showered upon them a volley of ballets. This 
terrible fire was so well supported, and so well directed, that 
the ranks of the assailants were soon thinned and broken : 
they retired in disorder to the place of their landing : some 
threw themselves precipitately into the boats. 

The field of battle was covered with the slain. The offi- 
cers were seen running hither and thither, with promises, 
with exhortations, and with menaces, attempting to rally 
the soldiers, and inspirit them for a second attack. Finally, 
after the most painful efforts, they resumed their ranks, and 
marched up to the enemy. The Americans reserved their 
fire, as before, until their approach, and received them with 
the same deluge of balls. The English, overwhelmed and 
routed, again fled to the shore. 

In this perilous moment, General Howe remained for some 
time alone upon the field of battle : all the officers who sur- 
rounded him were killed or wounded. It is related, that, at 
this critical conjuncture, upon which depended the issue of 
the day. General Clinton, Avho, from Copp's Hill, examined 
all the movements, on seeing the destruction of his troop?, 
immediately resolved to fly to their succour. 

This experienced commander, by an able movement, re- 
established order ; and, seconded by the officers, who felt all 
the importance of success, to English honour and the course 
of events, he led the troops to a third attack. It was directed 
against the redoubt, at three several points. 

The artillery of the ships not only prevented all re-enforce- 



24S NATIONAL READER. 

ments from coming to the Americans by the isthmus of 
Charlestown, but even uncovered and swept the interior 
of the trench, which was battered in front at the same time. 
The ammunition of the Americans was nearly exhausted, 
and they could have no hopes of a recruit. Their fire must, 
of necessity, languish. 

Meanwhile, the English had advanced to the foot of the 
redoubt. The provincials, destitute of bayonets, defended 
themselves valiantly with the butt-ends of their muskets. 
But, the redoubt being already full of enemies, the American 
general gave the signal of retreat, and drew off his men. 

While the left wing and centre of the English army were 
thus engaged, the light infantry had impetuously attacked 
the palisades, which the provincials had erected, in haste, 
upon the bank of the River Mystic. On each side the com- 
bat was obstinate ; and, if the assault was furious, the re- 
sistance was not feeble. 

In spite of all the efforts of the royal troops, the provin- 
cials still maintained the battle in this part ; and had no 
thoughts of retiring, until they saw the redoubt and upper 
part of the trench in the power of the enemy. Their retreat 
was executed with an order not to have been expected from 
new-levied soldiers. 

This strenuous resistance of the left wing of the Ameri- 
can army, was, in effect, the salvation of the rest ; for, if it 
had given ground but a few instants sooner, the enemy's 
light infantry would have taken the main body and right 
wing in the rear, and their situation would have been hope- 
less. But the Americans had not yet reached the term 
of their toils and dangers. The only way that remained of 
retreat, was by the isthmus of Charlestown, and the Eng- 
lish had placed there a ship of war and two floating batte- 
ries, the balls of which raked every part of it. The Ame- 
ricans, however, issued from the peninsula without any con- 
siderable loss. ^ ^ ^ ^ 

The possession of the peninsula of Charlestown was much 
less useful than prejudicial to the royalists. Their army 
was not sufficiently numerous to guard, conveniently, all the 
posts of the city and of the peninsula. The fatigues of the 
soldiers multiplied in an excessive manner; and, added to 
the heat of the season, A\^iich was extreme, they generated 
numerous and severe maladies, which paralyzed the move- 
ments of the army, and enfeebled it from day to day. The 
greater part of the wounds became mortal, from the influence 
of the climate, and the want of proper food. 



NATIONAL READER. 249 

Thus, besides the honour of having conquered the field of 
battle, the victors gathered no real fruit from this action ; 
and, if its effects be considered, upon the opinion of other 
nations, and even of their own, as also upon the force of the 
army, it was even of serious detriment. 

In the American camp, on the contrary, provisions of 
every sort were in abundance, and, the troops being accus- 
tomed to the climate, the greater part of the wounded were 
eventually cured : their minds were animated with the new 
ardour of vengeance, and the blood they had lost exacted 
a plen'ary expiation. These dispositions were fortified not 
a little by the firing of Charlestown, which, from a flourish- 
ing town, of signal commercial importance, was thus reduc- 
ed to a heap of ashes and of ruins. The Americans could 
never turn their eyes in this direction, without a thrill of in- 
dignation, and without execrating the European soldiers. 

But the loss they felt the most sensibly was that of Gene- 
ral Warren. He was one of those men, who are more at- 
tached to liberty than to existence ; but not more ardently the 
friend of freedom, than a foe to avarice and ambition. He 
was endowed with a solid judgement, a happy genius, and 
a brilliant eloquence. In all private affairs, his opinion was 
reputed authority, and in all public counsels, a decision. 

Friends and enemies, equally knowing his fidelity and 
rectitude in all things, reposed in him a confidence without 
limits. Opposed to the wicked, without hatred; propitious 
to the good, Avithout adulation ; affable, courteous, and hu- 
mane, towards each ; — he was beloved, with reverence, by 
all, and respected by envy itself. 

Though in his person somewhat spare, his figure was pe- 
culiarly agreeable. He mourned, at this epoch, the recent 
loss of a wife, by whom he was tenderly beloved, and 
whom he cherished with reciprocal affection. In dying so 
gloriously for his country, on this memorable day, he left 
several orphans still in childhood ; but a grateful country 
assumed the care of their education. 

Thus was lost to the state, and to his family, in so impor- 
tant a crisis, and in the vigour of his days, a man equally 
qualified to excel in council or in the field. As for our- 
selves, faithful to the purpose of history, which dispenses 
praise to the good and blame to the perverse, we have not 
been willing that this virtuous and valiant American should 
be deprived, among posterity, of that honourable remem- 
brance so rightfully due to his eminent qualities. 



250 NATIONAL READER. 



LESSON CXXIX. 



Warren^ s Address to the American Soldiers, before the battle 
of Bunker's Hill. — Original. 

Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves ! 

Will ye give it up to slaves ? 

Will ye look for greener graves ? ' 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What's the mercy despots feel ! 
Hear it in that battle peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel ! 

Ask it — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you ! they're afire ! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it ! — From the vale 
On they come ! — and will ye quail ? — 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust ! 

Die we may — and die we must : — 

But, 0, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 
As where heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed. 
And the rocks shall raise their head,"^ 

Of his deeds to tell ! 



LESSON CXXX. 



Extract from an Address at the Laying of the Corner Stone of 
the Bunker Hill Monument, 11th June,1825. — D. Webster. 

The great event in the history of the continent, which 
we are now met here to comrnemorate ; that prodigy of 

* On the 17tli of June, 1825, half a century from the day of the tattle, the 
comer stone of a granite monument was laid on the ground where War- 
ren fell. 



NATIONAL READER. "^ 251 

modern times, at once the wonder and the blessing of the 
world, is the American revolution. In a day of extraordi- 
nary prosperity and happiness, of high national honour, dis- 
tinction, and power, we are brought together, in this place, 
by our love of country, by our admiration of exalted charac- 
ter, by our gratitude for signal services and patriotic devotion. 

The society, whose organ I am, was formed for the pur- 
pose of rearing some honourable and durable monument to 
the memory of the early friends of American independence. 
They have thought, that, for this object, no time could be 
more propitious than the present prosperous and peaceful 
period ; that no place could claim preference over this me- 
morable spot ; and that no day could be more auspicious to 
the undertaking, than the anniversary of the battle which 
was here fought. The foundation of that monument we 
have now laid. With solemnities suited to the occasion, 
with prayers to almighty God for his blessing, and in the 
midst of this cloud of witnesses, we have begun the work. 
We trust it will be prosecuted ; and that, springing from a 
broad foundation, rising high in massive solidity and una- 
dorned grandeur, it may remain, as long as Heaven permits 
the works of man to last, a fit emblem, both of the events in 
memory of which it is raised, and of the gratitude of those 
who have raised it. 

We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is 
most safely deposited in the universal remembrance of man- 
kind. We know, that, if we could cause this structure to 
ascend, not only till it reached the skies, but till it pierced 
them, its broad surfaces could still contain but part of that, 
which, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread 
over the earth, and which history charges itself with making 
known to all future times. We know, that no inscription, 
on entablatures less broad than the earth itself, can carry 
information of the events we commemorate where it has not 
already gone ; and that no structure, which shall not outlive 
the duration of letters and knowledge among men, can 
prolong the memorial. But our object is, by this edifice, 
to show our own deep sense of the value and importance 
of the achievements of our ancestors ; and, by present- 
ing this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive similar 
sentiments, and to foster a constant regard for the prin- 
ciples of the revolution. Human beings are composed not 
of reason only, but of imagination, also, and sentiment ; 
and that is neither wasted nor misapplied, which is appro- 



252 NATIONAL READER. 

priated to the purpose of giving right direction to sentiments, 
and opening proper springs of feeling in the heart. Let it 
not be supposed, that our object is to perpetuate national hos- 
tility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. It is higher, 
purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the spirit of na- 
tional independence, and we wish that the light of peace may 
rest upon it forever. We rear a memorial of our conviction 
of that unmeasured benefit, which has been conferred on our 
own land, and of the happy influences, which have been pro- 
duced, by the same events, on the general interests of man- 
kind. We come, as Americans, to mark a spot, which must 
forever be dear to us and our posterity. We wish, that who- 
soever, in all coming time, shall turn his eye hither, may 
behold that the place is not undistinguished, where the first 
great battle of the revolution was fought. We wish, that 
this structure may proclaim the magnitude and importance 
of that event, to every class and every age. We wish, that 
infancy may learn the purpose of its erection from maternal 
lips, and that weary and withered age may behold it, and be 
solaced by the recollections which it suggests. We wish, 
that labour may look up here, and be proud in the midst of 
its toil. We wish, that, in those days of disaster, which, as 
they come on all nations, must be expected to come on us 
also, desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hitherward, 
and be assured that the foundations of our national power 
still stand strong. We wish, that this column, rising to- 
wards heaven among the pointed spires of so many temples 
dedicated to God, may contribute also to produce, in all 
minds, a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude. We 
wish, finally, that the last object on the sight of him who 
leaves his native shore, and the first to gladden his who re- 
visits it, may be something which shall remind him of the 
liberty and the glory of his country. Let it rise, till it meet 
the sun in his coming ; let the earliest light of the morning 
gild it, and parting day linger and play on its summit. 



LESSON CXXXL 



Address to the Survivors of the Bunker Hill Battle, and of 
the Revolutionary Arrny. — From the same. 

Notwithstanding that I have given but a faint abstract of 
the things which have happened since the day of the battle 



NATIONAL READER. 253 

of Bunker Hill, we are but fifty years removed from it ; and 
we now stand here, to enjoy all the blessings of our own 
condition, and to look abroad on the brightened prospects 
of the world, while we hold still among us some of those, 
who were active agents in the scenes of 1775, and who are 
now here, from every quarter of New England, to visit, once 
more, and under circumstances so affecting, — I had almost 
said so overwhelming, — this renowned theatre of their cou- 
rage and patriotism. 

Venerable men ! you have come down to us from a former 
generation. Heaven has^ bounteously lengthened out your 
lives, that you might behold this joyous day. You are now 
where you stood fifty ^^ears ago, this very hour, with your 
brothers and ^^our neighbours, shoulder to shoulder, in the 
strife for your country. Behold, how altered ! The same 
heavens are indeed over your heads; the same ocean rolls at 
your feet ; — ^but all else how changed ! You hear now no 
roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes of smoke 
and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground 
strowed with the dead and the dying ; the impetuous charge ; 
the steady and successful repulse ; the loud call to repeated 
assault ; the summoning of all that is manly to repeated re- 
sistance ; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in 
an instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and 
death; — all these you have witnessed, but you witness them 
no more. All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, 
its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with wives, 
and children, and countrymen, in distress and terror, and 
looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the com- 
bat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole 
happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with 
a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of 
position appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and 
seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoy- 
ance to you, but your country's ov/n means of distinction and 
defence. All is peace ; and God has granted you this sight 
of your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the grave 
forever. He has allowed you to behold and to partake the 
reAvard of your patriotic toils ; and he has allowed us, your 
sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and, in the name 
of the present generation, in the name of your country, in 
the name of liberty, to thank you. ^ =^ # ^ # 

But the scene amidst which we stand does not permit us 
to confine our thoughts or our sympathies to those fearless 
22 



254 NATIONAL READER. 

spirits who hazarded or lost their lives on this consecrated 
spot. We have the happiness to rejoice here in the pre- 
sence of a most worthy representation of the survivors of the 
whole revolutionary army. 

Veterans ! you are the remnant of many a well-fought 
field. You bring with you marks of honour from Trenton 
and Monmouth, from Yorktown, Camden, Bennington, and 
Saratoga. Veterans of half a century ! when in your 
youthful days, you put every thing at hazard in your coun- 
try's cause, good as that cause was, and sanguine as youth 
is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch onward to an hour 
like this ! At a period to which you could not reasonably 
have expected to arrive ; at a moment of national prosperity, 
such as you could never have foreseen ; you are now met, 
here, to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive 
the overflowings of a universal gratitude. 

But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts 
inform me, that even this is not an unmixed joy. I per- 
ceive that a tumult of contending feelings rushes upon you. 
The images of the dead, as well as the persons of the living, 
throng to your embraces. The scene overwhelms you, and 
I turn from it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon 
3'our declining years, and bless them ! And, when you shall 
here have exchanged your embraces ; when you shall once 
more have pressed the hands which have been so often ex- 
tended to give succour in adversity, or grasped in the exul- 
tation of victory ; then look abroad into this lovely land, 
which your young valour defended, and mark the happiness 
with which it is filled; yea, look abroad into the whole 
earth, and see what a name you have contributed to give 
to your country, and what a praise you have added to free- 
dom, and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude, which 
beam upon your last days from the improved condition of 
mankind. 



LESSON CXXXII. 

Hymn for the same Occasion. — Original. 

0, IS not this a holy spot! 

'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth ! 
God of our fathers ! is it not 

The holiest spot of all the earth ? 



NATIONAL READER. 255 

Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side ; 

The robber roams o'er Sinai now ; 
And those old men, thy seers, abide 

No more on Zion's- mournful brow. 

But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt, 
Since round its head the war-cloud curled. 

And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt 
In prayer and battle for a world. 

Here sleeps their dust : 'tis holy ground : 

And we, the children of the brave, 
From the four winds are gathered round. 

To lay our offering on their grave. 

Free as the winds around us blow, 

Free as the waves below us spread, 
We rear a pile, that long shall throw 

Its shadow on their sacred bed. 

But on their deeds no shade shall fall, 

While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame : 

Thine ear was bowed to hear their call. 
And thy right hand shall guard their fame. 



LESSON cxxxm. 

Whafs Hallowed Ground? — Campbell.^^ 

What's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That's hallowed ground, where, mourned and missed. 
The lips repose our love has kissed: — 
But where's their memory's mansion ? Is't 

Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

* From the New Monthly Magazine for Oct. 1825. 



256 NATIONAL READER. 



# # # # # ^ 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! — 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom ; 
Or genii twine, beneath the deep, 

Their coral tomb. 

But, strow his ashes to the wind, 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind, 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind, 

Is not to die. 

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? 
He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight ? 

A noble cause ! " 

Give that, and welcome War to brace 

Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space !- 

The colours, planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear : — 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal ! 
The cause of truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine — 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine. 

Where they are not. 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

-ii. -5^ ^ -it- -^i- -Ai- -if* 

'Tr 'VV- 'TV' -TV* -TV* 'TV' 



NATIONAL READER. 257 

What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what giv€S birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground. 



LESSON CXXXIV. 



Extract from a Speech of Counsellor Phillips, at a public 
Dinner in Ireland, on his Health being given, together 
with that of Mr. Payne, a young American, 1817. 

The mention of America, sir, has never failed to fill me 
with the most lively emotions. In my earliest infancy, — that 
tender season when impressions, at once the most permanent 
and the most powerful, are likely to be excited, — the story 
of her then recent struggle raised a throb in every heart that 
loved liberty, and wrung a reluctant tribute even from dis- 
comfited oppression. I saw her spurning alike the luxuries 
that would ener\'ate, and the legions that would intimidate ; 
dashing from her lips the poisoned cup of European servi- 
tude ; and, through all the vicissitudes of her protracted 
conflict, displaying a magnanimity that defied misfortune, 
and a moderation that gave new grace to victory. It was 
the first vision of my childhood ; it will descend with me to 
the grave. But if, as a man, I venerate the mention of 
America, what must be my feelings towards her as an Irish- 
man ! Never, O ! never, while memory remains, can Ire- 
land forget the home of her emigrant, and the asylum of 
her exile. No matter whether their sorrows sprung from the 
errors of enthusiasm, or the realities of suffering ; from fancy 
or infliction : that must be reserved for the scrutiny of those 
whom the lapse of time shall acquit of partiality. It is for 
the men of other ages to investigate and record it ; but, 
surely, it is for the men of every age to hail the hospitality 
that received the shelterless, and love the feeling that be- 
friended the unfortunate. Search creation round, where 
can you find a country that presents so sublime a vievv, so 
interesting an antieipation ? What noble institutions ! What 
a comprehensive policy ! What a wise equalization of every 
political advantage ! The oppressed of all countries, the 
22^ 



258 NATIONAL READER. 

martyr of every creed, the innocent victim of despotic ar- 
rogance or superstitious frenzy, may there find refuge ; his 
industry encouraged, his piety respected, his ambition ani- 
mated ; with no restraint but those laws which are the same 
to all, and no distinction but that which his merit may 
originate. Who can deny, that the existence of such a 
country presents a subject for human congratulation ! Who 
can deny, that its gigantic advancement offers a field for the 
most rational conjecture ! At the end of the very next cen- 
tury, if she proceeds as she seems to promise, what a won- 
drous spectacle may she not exhibit ! Who shall say for 
what purpose a mysterious Providence may not have design- 
ed her ! Who shall say, that, when, in its follies or its crimes, 
the old world may have interred all the pride of its power, 
and all the pomp of its civilization, human nature may not find 
its destined renovation in the new ! For myself, I have no 
doubt of it. I have not the least doubt, that, when our temples 
and our trophies shall have mouldered into dust ; when the 
glories of our name shall be but the legend of tradition, and 
the light of our achievements live only in song ; philosophy 
Vv^ill rise again in the sky of her Franklin, and glory rekin- 
dle at the urn of her Washington. Is this the vision of a ro- 
mantic fancy ? Is it even improbable ? Is it half so improba- 
ble as the events which, for the last twenty years, have 
rolled like successive tides over the surface of the European 
Avorld, each erasing the impression that preceded it ? Thou- 
sands upon thousands, sir, I know there are, who will con- 
sider this supposition as wild and whimsical : but they have 
dwelt, with little reflection, upon the records of the past. 
They have but ill observed the never-ceasing progress of 
national rise"^' and national ruin. They form their judgement 
on the deceitful stability of the present hour, never con- 
sidering the innumerable monarchies and republics, in for- 
mer days, apparently as permanent, whose very existence 
has now become the subject of speculation, I had almost said 
of skepticism. I appeal to History ! Tell me, thou reverend 
chronicler of the grave, can all the illusions of ambition re- 
alize, can all the wealth of a universal commerce, can all 
the achievements of successful heroism, or all the esta- 
blishments of this world's wisdom, secure to empire the 
permanency of its possessions ? Alas I Troy thought so 
once ; yet the land of Priam lives only hi song ! Thebes 
thought so once ; yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and 
hsr very tombs are but as the dust the}?- were vainly intend- 

* Not rize. 



i. 



NATIONAL READER. 259 

ed to commemorate ! So thought Palmyra — where is she ? 
So thought the countries of Demosthenes and the Spartan ; 
yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid slave, and Athens in- 
sulted by the servile, mindless, and ener'vate Ottoman ! In 
his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined 
immortality; and all its vanities, from the palace to the 
tomb, have, with their ruins, erased the very impression of 
his footsteps ! The days of their glory are as if they had 
never been ; and the island, that was then a speck, rude and 
neglected in the barren ocean, now rivals the ubiquity^ of 
their commerce, the glory of their arms, the fame of their 
philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration 
of their bards ! Who shall say, then, contemplating the past, 
that England, proud and potent as she appears, may not, one 
day, be what Athens is, and the young America yet soar to 
be what Athens was ! Who shall say, that, when the Euro- 
pean column shall have mouldered, and the night of barba- 
rism obscured its very ruins, that mighty continent may not 
emerge from the horizon, to rule, for its time, sovereign of 
the. ascendant ! ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Sir, it matters very little what immediate spot may 
have been the birth-placet of such a man as Washington. 
No people can claim, no country can appropriate him. 
The boon of Providence to the human race, his fame 
is eternity, and his residence creation. Though it was 
the defeat of our arms, and the disgrace of our policy, I 
almost bless the con,vulsion in which he had his origin. 
If the heavens thundered, and the earth rocked, yet, when 
the storm had passed, how pure was the climate that it clear- 
ed ! how bright, in the brow of the firmament, was the 
planet which it revealed to us ! In the production of Wash- 
ington, it does really appear as if Nature was endeavouring to 
improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient 
world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of 
the new. Individual instances, no doubt, there were, splen- 
did exemplifications, of some single qualification : Csesar was 
merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient ; but 
it was reserved for Washington to blend them all in one, 
and, like the lovely masterpiece of the Grecian artist, to 
exhibit, in one glow of associated beauty, the pride of every 
model,! and the perfection of every master. As a general, 
he marshalled -the peasant into a veteran, and supplied by 
discipline the absence of experience ; as a statesman, he 

* Pron. u-blc'-we-tj. t bSrth-place. t Not moddle. 



260 NATIONAL READER. 

enlarged the policy of the cahinet into the most comprehen- 
sive system of general advantage ; and such was the wisdom 
of his views, and the philosophy of his counsels, that, to the 
soldier and the statesman, he almost added the character of 
the sage! A conqueror, he Avas untainted with the crime 
of blood ; a revolutionist, he was free from any stain of trea- 
son ; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country 
called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, 
necessity stained, victory returned it. If he had paused 
here, history might have doubted what station to assign him ; 
whether at the head of her citizens, or her soldiers, her 
heroes, or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his 
career, and banishes all hesitation. Who, like Washington, 
after having emancipated a hemisphere, resigned its crown, 
and preferred the retirement of domestic life to the adoration 
of a land he might be almost said to have created ! 

Happy, proud America! The lightnings of heaven yield- 
ed to your philosophy ! The temptations of earth could not 
seduce your patriotism ! 



LESSON CXXXV. 

The Nature of True Eloquence. — D. Webster. 

When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous 
occasions, Avhen great interests are at stake, and strong 
passions excited, nothing is valuable, in speech, farther than 
it is connected with high intellectual and moral endow- 
ments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities 
which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not 
consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. La- 
bour and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. 
Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but 
they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the 
subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense ex- 
pression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it ; 
they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the 
outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting 
forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native 
force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna- 
ments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and dis- 
gust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, 



NATIONAL READER. - 261 

their children, and their country, hang on the decision of 
the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is 
vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius 
itself then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in the presence of 
higher qualities. Then, patriotism is eloquent ; then, self- 
devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, out-running the 
deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the 
dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the 
eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man 
onward, right onward, to his object — this, this is eloquence ; 
or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all elo- 
quence, — it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. 



LESSON CXXXVI. 



Extract from a Discourse, in Commemoration of the Lives 
and Services of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, de- 
livered in Faneuil Hall, Boston, 2d August, 1826. — By 
Daniel Webster. 

In July, 1776, the controversy had passed the stage of 
argument. An appeal had been made to force, and oppos- 
ing armies were in the field. Congress, then, was to decide, 
whether the tie, which had so long bound us to the parent 
state, was to be severed at once, and severed forever. All 
the colonies had signified their resolution to abide by this 
decision, and the people looked for it with the most intense 
anxiety. And surely, fellow-citizens, never, never were 
men called to a more important political deliberation. If 
we contemplate it from the point where they then stood, no 
question could be more full of interest ; if we look at it now, 
and judge of its importance by its effects, it appears in still 
greater magnitude. 

Let us, then, bring before us the assembly, which was 
about to decide a question thus big with the fate of empire. 
Let us open their doors, and look in upon their delibera- 
tions. Let us survey the anxious and care-worn coun- 
tenances, let us hear the firm-toned voices, of this band of 
patriots. 

Hancock presides over the solemn sitting ; and one of 
those not yet prepared to pronounce for absolute indepen- 



262 NATIONAL READER. 

dence, is on the floor, and is urging his reasons for dissent- 
ing from the declaration. 

' Let us pause ! This step, once taken, cannot be retrac- 
ed. This resolution, once passed, will cut off all hope of 
reconciliation. If success attend the arms of England, we 
shall then be no longer colonies, with charters, and -with privi- 
leges ; these will all be forfeited by this act ; and we shall 
be in the condition of other conquered people — at the mercy 
of the conquerors. For ourselves, we may be ready to run 
the hazard ; but are we ready to carry the country to that 
length ? Is success so probable as to justify it ? Where is 
the military, where the naval power, by which we are to 
resist the whole strength of the arm of England ? — for she 
will exert that strength to the utmost : Can we rely on 
the constancy and perseverance of the people ? or will they 
not act, as the people of other countries have acted, and, 
wearied with a long war, submit, in the end, to a worse 
oppression? While we stand on our old ground, and insist 
on redress of grievances, we know we are right, and are 
not answerable for consequences. Nothing, then, can be 
imputable to us. But, if we now change our object, carry 
our pretensions farther, and set up for absolute indepen- 
dence, we shall lose the sympathy of mankind. We shall 
no longer be defending what we possess, but struggling for 
something which Ave never did possess, and which Ave have 
solemnly and uniformly disclaimed all intention of pursuing, 
from the very outset of the troubles. Abandoning thus our 
old ground, of resistance only to arbitrary acts of oppression, 
the nations Avill believe the whole to have been mere pre- 
tence, and they Avill look on us, not as , injured, but as am- 
bitious subjects. I shudder before this responsibility. It 
will be on us, if, relinquishing the ground Ave have stood on 
so long, and stood on so safely, we now proclaim indepen- 
dence, and carry on the war for that object, while these cities 
burn, these pleasant fields Avhiten and bleach Avith the bones 
of their oAvners, and these streams run blood. It will be 
upon us, it Avill be upon us, if, failing to maintain this un- 
seasonable and ill judged declaration, a sterner despotism, 
maintained by military power, shall be established over our 
posterity, Avhen we ourselves, given up by an exhausted, a 
harassed, a misled people, shall have expiated our rashness 
and atoned for our presumption, on the scaflbld.' 



NATIONAL READER. ^ 263 

LESSON CXXXVII. 

The same, concluded. 
♦ 

It was for Mr. Adams to reply to arguments like these. 
We know his opinions, and we know his character. He 
would commence with his accustomed directness and ear- 
nestness. 

' Sink or swim, live or die, surviA^e or perish, I give my 
hand and my heart to this vote ! It is true, indeed, that, in 
the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But there's 
a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England 
has driven us to arms ; and, blinded to her own interest, for 
our good she has obstinately persisted, till independence is 
now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and 
it is ours. Why, then, should we defer the declaration ? Is 
any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with 
England, which shall leave either safety to the country and 
its liberties, or safety to his own life, and his own honour ? 
Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair ; is not he, our vene- 
rable colleague near you ; are you not both already the pro- 
scribed and predestined objects of punishment and of ven- 
geance ? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are 
you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, 
but outlaws ? If we postpone independence, do we mean to 
carry on, or to give up, the war ? Do we mean to submit to 
the measures of parliament, Boston port-bill and all ? Do 
we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be 
ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden 
down in the dust ? I know we do not mean to submit. We 
never shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most 
solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, 
before God, of our sacred honour to Washington, when, put- 
ting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the 
political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, 
in every extremity, with our fortunes, and our lives ? I know 
there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general 
conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, 
than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. 
For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved 
you, that George Washington be appointed commander of 
the forces, raised, or to be raised, for defence of American 
liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my 



264 NATIONAL READER. 

tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or wa- 
ver, in the support I give him. The war, then, must go on. 
We must fight it through. And, if the war must go on, why 
put off longer the declaration of independence ? That mea- 
sure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. 
The nations will then treat with us, which they never can 
do while we acknoAvledge ourselves subjects, in arms 
against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England, her- 
self, will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of in- 
dependence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknow- 
ledge, that her whole conduct towards us has been a course 
of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wound- 
ed by submitting to that course of things which now pre- 
destinates our independence, than by yielding the points in 
controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she 
would regard as the result of fortune ; the latter she would 
feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, 
do we not, as soon as possible, change this from a civil to a 
national war ? And, since we must fight it through, why not 
put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, 
if we gain the victory ? 

' If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall 
not fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the cause Avill 
create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to 
them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously, 
through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people 
have been found. I know the people of these colonies ; and 
I know, that resistance to British aggression is deep and set- 
tled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every colo- 
ny, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but 
take the lead. Sir, the declaration will inspire the people 
with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war 
for restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for 
chartered immunities, held under a British king, set before 
them the glorious object of entire independence, and it will 
breathe into them anew the breath of life. Read this de- 
claration at the head of the army; every sword will be 
drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to 
maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honour. Publish 
it from the pulpit ; religion will approve it, and the love of 
religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with 
it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls ; proclaim it 
there ; let them hear it, who heard the first roar of the ene- 
my's cannon ; let them see it, who saw their brothers and 



NATIONAL READER. ^^5 

their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets 
of Lexington and Concord, — and the very walls will cry out 
in its support. 

' Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs ; but I see, 
I see clearly, through this day's business. You and I, in- 
deed, may rue it. We may not live to the time, when this 
declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die, colo- 
nists ; die, slaves ; die, it may be, ignominiously, and on the 
scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure of Hea- 
ven that my country shall require the poor offering of my 
life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sa- 
crifice, come when that hour may. But, while I do live, let 
me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and 
that a free country. 

' But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, 
that this declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and 
it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly com- 
pen'sate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, 
I see the brightiiess of the future, as the sun in heaven. 
We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we 
are in our graves, our children will honour it. They will 
celebrate it, with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, 
and illuminations. On its annual return, they will shed 
tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery,^ 
not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and 
of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My 
judgement approves this measure, and my w^hole heart is in 
it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in 
this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it ; and I leave 
off, as I begun, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for 
the declaration. It is my living sentiment, and, by the bless- 
ing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment ; — independence 
noiv ; and independence forever !' 

And so that day shall be honoured, illustrious prophet and 
patriot ! so that day shall be honoured ; and, as often as it 
returns, thy renown shall come along with it ; and the glory 
of thy life, like the day of thy death,"^ shall not fail from the 
remembrance of men. 

* Both of the distinguished patriots, in commemoration of whose lives and 
services this Discourse was delivered, died on the same day, 4th July, 1826, — 
fifty years from the day on which the Declaration of Independence, of which 
one was the author, and the other the strenuous and eloquent advocate, w -i- 
adopted by the American Congress. 

23 



^QQ NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON CXXXVIII. 

The School-Boy. — The Amulet. 

The School-Boy had been rambling all the day, — 
A careless, thoughtless idler, — till the night 
Came on, and warned him homeward : — then he left 
The meadows, where the morning had been passed, 
Chasing the butterfly, and took the road 
To'ward the cottage where his mother dwelt. 
He had her parting blessing, and she watched 
Once more to breathe a welcome to her child, 
Who sauntered lazily — ungrateful boy ! — 
Till deeper darkness came o'er sky and earth ; 
And then he ran, till, almost breathless grown. 
He passed within the wicket-gate, which led 
Into the village church-yard : — then he paused, 
And earnestly looked round ; for o'er his head 
The gloomy cypress waved, and at his feet 
Lay the last bed of many a villager. 

But on again he pressed with quickened step, 
" Whistling aloud to keep his courage up." 
The bat came flapping by ; the ancient church 
Threw its deep shadows o'er the path he trod, 
And the boy trembled like the aspen leaf; 
For now he fancied that all shapeless forms 
Came flitting by him, each with bony hand, 
And motion as if threatening ; while a weight 
Unearthly pressed the satchel and the slate 
He strove to keep within his grasp. The wind 
Played with the feather that adorned his cap, 
And seemed to whisper something horrible. 
The clouds had gathered thickly round the moon ; 
But, now and then, her light shone gloriously 
Upon the sculptured tombs and humble graves. 
And, in a moment, all was dark again. 

O'ercome with terror, the pale boy sank down, 
And wildly gazed around him, till his eye 
Fell on a stone, on which these warning words 
Were carved : — 

" Time ! thou art flying rapidly, 
But whither art thou flying ?" 



II 



NATIONAL READER. 267 



" To the grave — which yours will hi 

I wait not for the dying. 
In early youth you laughed at me, 

And, laughing, passed life's morning ; 
But, in thine age, I laugh at thee — 

Too late to give thee warning." 

" Death ! thy shado^vy form I see, 

The steps of Time pursuing : 
Like him thou comest rapidly : 

What deed must thou be doing ?" 
" Mortal ! my message is for thee : 

Thy chain to earth is rended : 
I bear thee to eternity : 

Prepare ! thy course is ended !" 

Attentively the fainting boy perused 

The warning lines ; then grew more terrified ; 

For, from the grave, there seemed to rise a voice 

Repeating them, and telling him of time 

Misspent, of death approaching rapidly. 

And of the dark eternity that followed. 

His fears increased, till on the ground he lay 

Almost bereft of feeling and of sense. 

And there his mother found him : 

From the damp church-yard sod she bore her child, 

Frightened to feel his clammy hands, and hear 

The sighs and sobs that from his bosom came. 

'Twas strange, the influence which that fearful hour 
Had o'er his future life ; for, from that night. 
He was a thoughtful, an industrious boy. 
And still the memory of those warning words 
Bids him keflect, — now that he is a man, 
And writes these feeble lines that others may. 



LESSON CXXXIX. 

Stanzas addressed to the Greeks. — Anonymous. 

On, on, to the just and glorious strife ! 

With your swords your freedom shielding : 
Nay, resign, if it must be so, even life ; 

But die at least, unyielding. 



268 NATIONAL READER. 

On to the strife ! for 'twere far more meet 
To sink with the foes who bay you, 

Than crouch, like dogs, at your tyrants' feet, 
And smile on the swords that slay you. 

Shall the pagan slaves be masters, then, 
Of the land which your fathers gave you ? 

Shall the Infidel lord it o'er Christian men. 
When your own good swords may save you ? 

No ! let him feel that their arms are strong, — 
That their courage will fail them never, — 

Who strike to repay long years of wrong, 
And bury past shame forever. 

Let him know there are hearts, however bowed 
By the chains which he threw around them, 

That will rise, like a spirit from pall and shroud, 
And cry "wo !" to the slaves who bound them. 

Let him learn how weak is a tyrant's might 
Against liberty's sword contending ; 

And find how the sons of Greece can fight, 
Their freedom and land defending. 

Then on ! then on to the glorious strife ! 

With your swords your country shielding, 
And resign, if it must be so, even life ; 

But die, at least, unyielding-. 

Strike ! for the sires who left you free ! 

Strike ! for their sakes who bore you J 
Strike ! for your homes and liberty. 

And the Heaven you worship o'er you ! 



LESSON CXL. 

The Spanish Patriofs Song. — Anonymous. 

Hark ! Hear ye the sounds that the winds, on their pinions, I 

Exultingly roll from the shore to the sea, f 

With a voice that resounds through her boundless dominions? 
'Tis Columbia calls on her sons to be free ! 



i 



NATIONAL READER. 269 

Behold, on yon summits, where Heaven has throned her, 
How she starts from her proud, inaccessible seat ; 

With nature's impre^able ramparts around her, 
And the cataract's thunder and foam at her feet ! 

In the breeze of her mountains her loose locks are shaken, 
While the soul-stirring notes of her warrior-song. 

From the rock to the valley, re-echo, " Awaken ! 
Awaken, ye hearts, that have slumbered too long !" 

Yes, despots ! too long did your tyranny hold us. 
In a vassalage vile, ere its weakness was known ; 

Till we learned that the links of the chain that controlled us, 
Were forged by the fears of its captives alone. 

That spell is destroyed, and no longer availing. 

Despised as detested, pause well ere ye dare 
To cope with a people, whose spirits and feeling 

Are roused by remembrance, and steeled by despair. 

Go, tame the wild torrent, or stem with a straw [them ; 

The proud surges that sweep o'er the strand that confined 
But presume not again to give freemen a law. 

Nor think with the chains they have broken to bind them. 

To heights by the beacons of Liberty lightened, 

They're a scorn who come up her young eagles to tame ; 

And to swords, that her sons for the battle have brightened, 
The hosts of a king are as flax to a flame. 



LESSON CXLL 

The Three Waminsrs. — Mrs. Thrale. 



"&' 



The tree of deepest root is found 
Least willing still to quit the ground. 
'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages. 

That love of life increased with years 
So much, that, in our latter stages. 
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 

The greatest love of life appears. 
23=^ 



f 



270 NATIONAL READER. 

This great affection to believe, 
Which all confess, but few perceive, 
If old assertions can't prevail. 
Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 

When sports went round, and all were gay 
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day, 
Death called aside the joc'und groom 
With him into another room ; 
And, looking grave, " You must," says he, 
" Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." 

" With you ! and quit my Susan's side ! 
With you !" the hapless husband cried; 
" Young as I am ? 'tis monstrous hard ! 
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared : 
My thoughts on other matters go. 
This is my wedding-night, you know." 

What more he urged I have not heard : 
His reasons could not well be stronger : 

So Death the poor delinquent spared. 
And left to live a little longer. 

Yet, calling up a serious look, — 
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke, — 
"Neighbour," he said, "farewell! no more 
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour : 
And farther, to avoid all blame 
Of cruelty upon my name, 
To give you time for preparation, 
And fit you for your future station, 
Three several warnings you shall have, 
Before you're summoned to the grave. 
Willing, for once, I'll quit my prey, 

And grant a kind reprieve. 
In hopes you'll have no more to say. 
But, when I call again this way, 

Well pleased, the world will leave." 
To these conditions both consented, 
And parted, perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell, 
How long he lived, how wisely, — and how well 
It pleased him, in his prosperous course, 
To smoke his pipe, and pat his horse, — 

The willing muse shall tell : — 



il 



NATIONAL READER. 271 

He chaffered then, he bought, he sold, 
Nor once perceived his growing old, 

Nor thought of Death as near; 
His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many his gains, his children few, 

He passed his hours in peace. 
But, while he viewed his wealth increase,— 
While thus along life's dusty road 
The beaten track content he trod, — 
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares. 
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 

Brought on his eightieth year. 

And now, one night, in musing mood, 
As all alone he sate. 
The unwelcome messenger of fate 

Once more before him stood. 

Half killed with anger and surprise, 
" So soon returned !" old Dobson cries, 

" So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies : 
" Surely, my friend, you're but in jest: 

Since I was here before 
'Tis six-and-thirty years at least. 

And you are now fourscore." 

" So much the worse !" the clown rejoined : 
" To spare the aged would be kind : 
Besides, you promised me three warnings. 
Which I have looked for nights and mornings." 

"I know," cries Death, "that, at the best, 
I seldom am a welcome guest ; 
But don't be captious, friend, at least : 
I little thought you'd still be able 
To stump about your farm and stable : 
Your years have run to a great length : 
I wish you joy, though, of your strength." 

"Hold !" says the farmer, "not so fast: 
I have been lame these four years past." 

" And no great wonder," Death replies : 
" However, you still keep your eyes ; 
And sure, to see one's loves and friends. 
For legs and arms would make amends." 
"Perhaps," says Dobson, "so it might; 
But latterly I've lost my sight." 



272 NATIONAL READER. 

" This is a shocking story, faith ; 
Yet there's some comfort, still," says Death:. 
" Each strives your sadness to amuse : 
I warrant you hear all the news." 

" There's none/' cries he ; " and, if there were, 
I'm grown so deaf I could not hear." 
"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, 

" These are unreasonable yearnings : 
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind. 

You've had your three sufficient warnings : 
So come along ; no more we'll part." 
He said, and touched him with his dart: 
And now old Dobson, turning pale. 
Yields to his fate so ends my tale. 



LESSON CXLII. 

The Mariner^s Dream. — Dimond. 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay. 

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; 

But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away. 
Arid visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers. 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 

While memory each scene gayly covered with flowers, 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide. 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; — 

Now far, far behind him, the green waters glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, 

And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall ; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch, 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 

His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear ; 
And the lips of the boy in a iove-kiss unite 

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 



NATIONAL READER. ' - 273 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, 
Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er ; 

And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest — 
" O God ! thou hast blest me ; I ask for no more." 

Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on ];iis eye ? 

Ah ! what is that sound which now larums his ear ? 
'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky ! 

'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere I 

He springs from his hammock — he flies to the deck-^ 
Amazement confronts him with images dire — 

Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck — 
The masts fly in splinters — the shrouds are on fire ! 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell : 
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 

And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave. 

O sailor boy ! wo to thy dream of delight ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. 
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, 

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss ? 

O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed, and unhonoured, down deep in the main 
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge ; 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, 
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge ! 

On a bed of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid ; 

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, 

And every part suit to thy mansion below, > 

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away, 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 

Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye : — 
O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 



274 NATIONAL READER. 

LESSON CXLIII. 

Absalom. — Willis. 

The welters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low 
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled 
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 
The reeds bent down the stream : the willow leaves, 
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. 
Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems, 
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, _ 
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave Avay, 
And leaned, in gTaceful attitudes, to rest. 
How strikingly the course of nature tells, 
By its light heed of human suffering. 
That it was fashioned for a happier world ! 

King David's limbs were Aveary. He had fled 
From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, 
With his faint people, for a little rest 
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
Of morn w^as stirring, and he bared his brow 
To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
That he could see his people until now. 
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank, 
And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, 
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. 
Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts 
Come crowding thickly up for utterance. 
And the poor common words of courtesy"^ 
Are such a very mockery — how much 
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
He prayed for Israel ; and his voice went up 
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those 
Whose love had been his shield ; and his deep tones 
Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — 
For his estranged, misguided Absalom — 
The proud, bright being, who had burst away, 
In all his princely beauty, to defy 
The heart that cherished him — for him he poured, 
In agony that would not be controlled, 

* Pron. curt-e-sy. 



NATIONAL READER. 275 

Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 

# # # # # 

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
Was straightened for the grave ; and, as the folds 
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed 
The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed 
To the admitted air, as glossy now 
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
The snowy fingers of Judea's girls. 
His helm was at his feet : his banner, soiled 
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid. 
Reversed, beside him : and the jewelled hilt, 
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, 
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow. 
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro. 
Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, 
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, 
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, 
As if he feared the slumberer might stir. 
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade 
As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form 
Of David entered, and he gave command, 
In a low tone, to his few followers. 
And left him with his dead. The king stood still 
Till the last echo died : then, throwing off 
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
The pall from the still features of his child, 
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
In the resistless eloquence of wo : — 

" Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou should'st die ! 

Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! 
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, 
My proud boy Absalom ! 

" Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill. 
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. 

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, 



C— -'■'2 f 
276 NATIONAL READER. ^ 

And hear thy sweet ^'- my father'''' from these dumb 
And cold lips, Absalom ! 

" The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush 
Of music, and the voices of the young ; 

And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; — 

But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come 
To meet me, Absalom ! 

" And, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, 
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken. 

How will its love for thee, as I depart. 

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! 

It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

" And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up. 
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee : — 

And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup. 
If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. 

May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, 
My erring Absalom !" 

He covered up his face, and bowed himself 
A moment on his child : then, giving him 
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; 
And, as a strength were given him of God, 
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
Firmly and decently, and left him there, 
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 






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